The Ties That Bind: S1E2 - Cold Comfort
by TinkerbellBleu
Summary: After Jessica is brutally murdered by paranormal forces, Sam finds solace at the bottom of a bottle, leaving Skye and Dean to get to know each other a little better.-Slow Burn/Enemies-to-Lovers/Humor/Language/Sarcasm/Feels/Fluff/Meta/Fan Service/Alternate Timeline/Adult Themes and Situations-Rated TV-14
1. Prologue

A Note From Your Friendly Neighborhood Glitter-Pixie:

_I originally decided to write this journal in the hopes that it might someday help future generations of Hunters the way John's journal helped us. That being said, I think I need to make it clear that this isn't a how-to on how to gank a ghost, this is the story of our lives. After so many years, so much has been twisted, I think people now have a distorted view of who we are and why we've done the things we've done. I want to help, yes, but I also want to set the record straight about everything once and for all._

_Now, I was going to move straight from the utter destruction of Sammy's entire life in California to our gig in Colorado, but that would leave so much out that really needs to be included, otherwise you're really not getting an accurate account of the way things happened. _

_That being said, this story isn't like the last. For one thing, it's much smaller in scope, and for another, there is no monster to fight and no plot of any kind. If demon-fighting info is what you're after, then you're going to want to skip this one. If, however, you find yourself curious to know the people behind the stories, then you'll definitely want to check this one out, as it's all about how Dean and I turned a corner to go from 'Omfg you're such a bitch/asshole' to...more than that. And I personally find it really funny, so there's that_

_A word of warning, I think: In 'Woman in White', I sat down and wrote out everything I remembered before going to the boys and pestering them with a million questions. Then, I took their input and cleaned everything up, edited it, had other people look it over, etc… Turned it into a real story, you know? (Or at least tried to, I have no delusions that I'm any kind of real writer, but at the very least I have to say, it's great therapy.)_

_This time, however, I'm doing things just a bit differently. This time, I've conscripted a bit of help so you'll get everything straight from the horses' mouths, so to speak. Does that make it messier and more annoying to read? Probably, but I think you'll deal. Or not. It's not like anybody's forcing you to read this._

_...and so without further gilding the lily and with no more ado, I present to you my husband, the infamous Dean Winchester._

_~ Tink_

Okay. So. Hi, I guess. No idea what I'm really supposed to do here. Last time, Tink just asked me a few questions and then sat down and wrote some shit out but this time she somehow talked me into sitting down and typing this shit out myself because she wants it 'directly from my point of view'. I am not a writer. I barely qualify as a reader (_Liar, liar, pants on fire. Dude reads almost as much as I do. ~Tink) _so I don't know what she's expecting but she's got a nice ass and I was promised pie, so I'll give it a shot.

\- Dean

* * *

Thanks to my beta Emmyllou! Her work can be found on FFNet and Ao3. (Skye may not be editing this one, but I sure as hell am.)

Complete index for season one of The Ties That Bind and frequent updates can be found on the author's profile.


	2. Welcome to the Overlook

_"Ultimately the bond of all companionship, whether in marriage or in friendship, is conversation."_

– **Oscar Wilde**

The westering sun was just settling on the horizon as Dean pulled the Impala into the parking lot of what had once probably been quite the impressive nine-story hotel but was now mostly a crumbling pile of OSHA violations. It had been one hell of a long day, starting with torching the decades old bones of a couple of kids and ending with Sam's entire life going up in flames. Really just not the best day ever. I can't say it couldn't be worse because it can always be worse, but definitely not something anybody would ever look back on fondly. Well, mostly...

With a twist of the wrist, Dean killed the V8, his other hand wrapped so tightly around the steering wheel his knuckles turned white. The silence in the car clogged the air, thick and viscous, gluing jaws closed and choking throats. We'd probably have sat there all night if Dean hadn't managed to finally break it. "You guys stay put, I'll go get us a room."

His hand on the door, he looked up, meeting my eyes in the rearview mirror. (Have I mentioned that Dean's got _the_ most gorgeous green eyes I've ever seen in my life? Probably. Am I going to mention it five billion more times? Yes. Yes, I am.) "Watch him."

"Yeah. Sure." What else was I going to say? '_No, sorry, don't wanna_?' Yeah right.

My attention turned to the 'him' in question. Well, I mean, really it had never left the 'him in question', but… Man, Sam was a mess, or at least clearly would be in the very near future. Right now he had that kind of glazed look you get when your brain is still struggling to realize that you're not dead, you just wish you were. It was the first time I'd seen it in his eyes. Unfortunately, it would not be the last.

Without another word, Dean got out of the car, the slam of the door behind him echoing off the buildings around us.

—Sidenote: Why does everything always get really loud in the aftermath of a disaster? Seriously, any disaster and after the smoke clears and the blood dries, everything just gets really still and every little sound ricochet around in your head.

Sorry. I know, I'm rambling. I do that a lot—go off on a tangent about some barely related thing or other—you'll get used to it. Or you won't and you'll get annoyed and stop reading and never come back. Just know that I always circle back around to the topic at hand, whether you stick around for it is up to you.—

Sam must have been watching Dean walk away because the second he was out of sight, Sam was out of the car and off in the opposite direction. Great. Fantastic. Wonderful. What exactly was I supposed to do about it?

Grabbing my bag out of the floorboard, I slung a strap over my shoulder and climbed out of the backseat, running after him. (Okay, it was really more of a light jog, but there was at least some minimal effort involved.) "Sam, hold up a second."

"Don't." His voice rough, Sam stopped long enough to face me, looking hollow. Yeah, that's a good word for it. Hollow. Like he'd been scooped out and left as just a shell. Really made my problems pale in comparison. "I need a drink and I don't think I can deal with you and Dean right now-"

I _could_ have asked what _that_ was supposed to mean, but contrary to the popular opinion of the time, I'm not a total bitch. Also not a total idiot.

"-like I could stop you if I wanted to." And who the hell was I to even try? Just some random girl he'd known for like a whole three days. We weren't even really friends yet. Not to mention that Sammy could've spiked me like a football back then. Nowadays he has to actually work for it. "I just wanted to ask you to please be careful. I don't wanna have to come lookin' for you at three in the mornin' or have to file a police report or some shit, okay?"

If Sam could have managed any expression besides agony, I suppose he'd've looked grateful. As it was, he just looked like he wanted to curl up and die and I don't blame him. "Tell Dean-"

"Don't worry about Dean." With one hand wrapped around the strap of the bag over my shoulder, I smiled at the shaggy-haired puppy of a man. Well, maybe 'smiled' is a bit of a stretch, but it was something. Sure he was virtually a stranger, but he seemed like such a nice guy and no one should ever have to go through what he was going through right then. Ever had your heart literally ache for another person? That restrictive, heavy feeling in your chest that makes it hard to breathe? God, I hate that. "I'll distract him as long as I can, give you a bit of a head start."

"Thanks."

* * *

Sitting cross-legged on the trunk of the car with my knapsack next to me, I watched Dean cross the parking lot, loose asphalt and gravel crunching under heavy black biker boots. He didn't look at all happy, but that wasn't exactly new. Besides, it wasn't like I didn't know I was going to get some grief over letting Sam run off, but it was the least I could do for the guy.

Leaning over to peer into the car—which I'm sure he'd already figured out was empty—Dean slowly straightened up to glare at me. If looks could kill. (More like 'OooOoo, scary.') "Where's Sam?"

"Don't know." Which was true, I didn't know. Well, okay, I didn't know exactly, but I had a pretty good idea. Maybe if he'd asked the right questions I would have said more, but he didn't, so... not my fault, right? Right. (Also, word of advice here, develop the ability to tell the exact truth without actually revealing a goddamn thing. It's an incredibly useful skill to have.)

"What do you mean, you don't know?" Stepping up a little closer, Dean crossed his arms, scowling down at me like I was going to start cowering away any second now. Yeah. Right. You'd think he'd've learned that didn't work on me by then. (Though to be totally fair, he still does this and it's never worked. Old habits, I guess.) "I told you to watch him."

"I know, I'm sorry." No I wasn't. Not even a little. Then or now. "I just-I had to pee and when I got back, he was gone." Lies, all outright lies, but I've always been a damned good liar. Or at least, I was, right up until Dean learned to read me like a fucking book.

—And do you know how annoying it is to have someone know you so well that they can figure out what you're thinking before you do? Not that it doesn't come in handy, it really does, but trying to keep a secret from someone you've been with for years is a job of work, let me tell you.—

Sorry, rambling again. Where was I? Oh. Yeah. Dean being all aggravated at me. (Which still happens, like, daily.)

"You had to pee." Running a hand through his hair, I could practically see him counting to ten as he closed his eyes. "Great." In retrospect, him taking a second to try and keep his temper was kind of sweet. ...but then Dean is, in fact, a giant fucking marshallow covered in prickly, cranky badass. (Don't tell him I said that, though. He hates when I say that. Something about his 'reputation'. Insert eyeroll here.)

He turned in a slow circle—as if to try and pick Sam out of the darkness—before turning back to look down at me, the muscle in his jaw twitching. "...so you don't even know which direction he went?"

"I think-I think maybe he said something about the park earlier?" No, he didn't. Ever. Hell, I'm not sure I've ever heard Sammy even say the word 'park' in all the years I've known him. "I think we passed one on the way in." No we hadn't. "Four or five blocks that way." Lifting a hand, I gestured vaguely in the opposite direction from the one Sam had actually gone.

What, you didn't think Dean calls me a brat for no reason, right? I totally am. I think it's like half of why he fell for me, actually. Dude needs so much therapy. (Like she doesn't. -Dean)

"Oh for fucks sake..." Digging the keys out of his pocket, Dean started to walk around to the driver's side, muttering something under his breath about 'midgets' and a 'pain in his ass'. Really sounded like a personal problem to me. Or a niche porn category. "This is why I told you to watch him."

"And what could I have done to stop him, Dean? Kick him in the shins and run away?" Sliding down off the trunk, I grabbed my bag and stood behind the car with my arms crossed, doing my best to at least make an inconvenient speed bump and slow him down just a few extra minutes. "Have you noticed that he's literally twice my size and could bench press a small Buick?"

Yanking open the driver's side door, Dean paused long enough to give me a look that said quite clearly that I was completely full of shit. Which is true. "Like you couldn't have figured something out."

If it didn't sound like he wanted to reach over and twist my head off, that would have almost been a compliment. "Aww. That's the sweetest thing you've ever said to me, Winchester."

Glaring at me from several feet away, he clenched his teeth hard enough to crack enamel. All these years and he still has that habit and I still haven't figured out how he hasn't needed thousands in dental work. I blame witchcraft. Literally. "Are you gonna get in the fuckin' car?"

"Not if you're gonna talk to me like that, I'm not." Not that I had any plans to get back in regardless, but he could at least be civil about it. "Sam's a big boy, Dean. Just give him some space, he'll be okay."

"I don't have time for your shit, Skyler." And it looked like he was counting to ten again. Several times. Or he was imagining strangling me. Or both. Probably both. "Here, look, just-" Sticking his hand in his pocket, he pulled out the room key and threw it at my head. Like actually at my head. Not that it would have hurt if I hadn't caught it, but rude. "Room 237. Go in, lock the doors, and don't go anywhere."

"Yes, sir. Anything else, sir?" Wiping all expression off my face, I snapped to attention, throwing a salute that was as derisive as I could possibly make it. And trust me, I can manage a lot of derision. "Perhaps you'd like me to run you a bath while you're out. Maybe spit shine your boots?"

Raising a single finger before stuffing himself in the driver's seat, Dean's parting shot was succinct and so well thought out; "Fuck you."

A nice offer, sure, but considering at that point I still couldn't shake hands without getting an anxiety spike…

"No thanks, I'm good."

* * *

'Go in. Lock the doors. Don't go anywhere.' Who died and made him boss of me, again? Pretty sure nobody. Still, not like I had anything better to do because if I had, I would have done it. Twice. And taken pictures. It didn't take long to find 237 and you can damn well bet I was grumbling to myself the entire fucking time.

It took a second to get the lock to turn, the tumblers stiff from disuse and I wondered exactly how long it had been since someone had stayed there. The whole place had a deserted feel to it. You ever see The Shining? It didn't look a thing like that, but it had the same 'we should get the fuck out of here' kind of feel to it. The fact that I hadn't seen a single other person since I stepped foot in the lobby didn't help. But hey, there was electricity and a decent chance at hot water, so fuck it.

You want to know the really weird part? At this point, I knew for a certainty that ghosts existed because I'd confronted three of them not twenty-four hours ago and you'd think that would make a place like this even creepier, right? Wrong. If anything it tends to have the opposite effect. Just wanted to throw that in there. So, back to the room…

With a shriek of protesting hinges, the stout wooden door creaked slowly open to reveal a bloody disembodied head. Okay, not really, but I wouldn't have been surprised. Much.

Really, the room wasn't half bad. For one, it was big, easily three or four times the size of John's room back in Jericho. For another, it had a kitchenette. Small, sure, but there was a fridge and stove and everything all shoved into the corner closest to the door. There was even a little kitchen table with a couple of chairs. Hell, it was nicer than my shitty studio apartment and how sad is that?

Two doors led off from the main room, the first opening into the bathroom, which was also large and fairly well appointed. Okay, not well, but I have very low standards in everything but men, so really it was pretty nice. The fixtures were old but solid and a quick twist of the knob proved there was at least hot water. What wasn't so nice was the huge old bathtub. One of those clawfoot affairs big enough to swim in...and no shower. That was going to be a problem. Nothing to do about it right that second, though, so it was whatever.

The second door led into a bedroom smaller than most closets. Tiny, windowless, barely big enough for the rickety twin bed and the miniscule nightstand. Yeah, that's going to be a no from me. One of the boys could take it, but no way I was.

After thoroughly inspecting everything, or as thoroughly as I could manage in ten minutes, I claimed the bed closest to the door and got comfortable. With nothing else to do, I kicked off my boots and flipped on the old black and white TV that sat on the dresser against the far wall, tuning it to nothing in particular and trying not to worry about what the boys were up to or how long they were going to be gone.

Maybe I should have stopped Sam after all.

...nah.


	3. Drunk and Not So Disorderly

A knock jarred me awake a few hours later, and not just any knock but you know how a cop knocks? Just like way too hard and enthusiastic and loud as all hell? Three guesses how Dean knocks and the first two don't count. Gives me a heart attack every fucking time, too.

Now, where were we? Ah yes, chapter three—

A knock jarred me awake a few hours later and I sat up, taking a couple of panicky seconds to remember where I was and why I was there and what the fuck even was my life anyway... A process that was hurried along by Dean's slurred and impatient baritone from the other side of the hotel room door. "Come on, Tinkerbell, open up. It's us."

_Because who else would it be, the fucking Easter Bunny?_ Rolling my eyes, I crawled off the bed, the credits to 'Bewitched' scrolling on the TV as I made my way across the room. Opening the door, I wrinkled my nose at the strong smell of whiskey that rolled up and bitch-slapped me in the face. _Jesus H. Christ, did they take a bath in Jack? _

A half-conscious Sam propped up with one arm, Dean blinked down at me, glassy-eyed and inebriated, speaking with that exaggerated enunciation that drunk people get when they're trying real hard not to appear drunk. "Took you long enough."

"Hey look, you found him." Taking a step back, I held the door open for Dean as he half-dragged/half-carried Sam inside and dropped him onto the closest bed. "Good for you, I knew you could do it."

"Yeah, and thanks so much for your help with that." Sagging down onto the foot of the bed next to Sam's mumbling self, Dean peered across the room at me, looking like he was taking a second to put the words together into a coherent sentence. "The park my ass."

"Did I say _park_?" Closing the door, I double-checked the locks before turning around to face him, expecting him to be glaring daggers at me and instead finding him looking at me with what I'm pretty sure was drunken amusement. "Whoops, I'm sorry, my bad. I meant _bar_."

"Yeah, you look real sorry." Struggling to kick off his boots, Dean leaned back on the bed, getting an incomprehensible protest from the drunken giant next to him (that he ignored). "You're a brat, you know that?"

"So I've been upgraded from bitch, then? Good to know." Leaning back against the door with my arms crossed, I watched him wrestle with his own feet for a solid two minutes because it was just funny (and he's kind of adorable when he's half in the bag. Also when stone cold sober but come on, I was still trying hard to be in denial at that point. And failing miserably, might I add). With a long-suffering sigh, I walked over to smirk down at him, not bothering to try to hide my laughter at his expense. "...need a hand?"

"Yeah, but not with this." Blinking at himself as if he couldn't quite process what he'd just said—and to be totally fair he never would have said it sober, at least not at that point in our 'relationship'—he looked up at me and tried to backtrack. "I mean-That's not-"

"You're drunk so you get a pass, but just the one. Next time I'll start thinkin' you're hittin' on me." Leaning past Dean, I swatted at Sam's drunk ass. "Hey, Tall, Dark, and Intoxicated. Move over." (It's probably a testament to my persistence and ability to annoy that I can totally make a mostly unconscious man squirm to get away from me, an ability I retain to this very day!)

Eyeing me as I straightened up, Dean managed to get the alcohol clogged gears in his brain working long enough to formulate a legitimate question (and one that I'm guessing had been on his mind for at least a couple of days). "And what would you do if I did?"

"Try it and find out." And now is when I'd like to take the time to mention that I grew up in a bar (you'll find out more about that later) and have been around a _lot_ of drunk people in my life—the vast majority of them men—and I'd been getting hit on since I was twelve. That being said, no way would I have popped off with that if I wasn't pretty sure he wouldn't actually remember it come morning because that was (no joke) the first time I ever consciously decided to flirt back. Cute, right? Yeah...bite me.

Sorry. Moving on.

"...are you serious because I can't fuckin' tell."

"What would you do if I were?" Yeah, I know, a battle of wits isn't really fair when the other person is unarmed. The look on his face as he puzzled through that was priceless, though, followed quickly by shock when I reached out and knocked him over backward onto the mattress next to his half-dead brother. "Just so we're clear, you're not about to get lucky, but I am gonna help you take off your boots so you can go to bed." After all, he'd recently done the same for me, it was only fair I return the favor.

"You know, you're not half bad when I've been drinking." Pretty sure he thought that was a compliment, but he's been known to be wrong. At least he was trying, though, so A for effort. Propping himself up on his elbows, Dean squinted down at me as I knelt to take his stupid boots off. "Are you bein' nice to me right now?"

Chucking the first boot into the corner behind the door, I didn't even bother to look up, treating him basically the same as I would a toddler that was asking stupid (yet entertaining) questions. "Yup."

"Why?"

The second boot quickly joined the first before I went ahead and took Sam's off too. "Cause I'm a nice person, Winchester." The 'dumbass' was implied but it's probably a good thing he missed it. I _was_ trying to be nice, after all. Mostly.

Falling back onto the mattress next to a now fully unconscious Sam, Dean threw an arm over his face, his voice muffled and words running together, but understandable enough. "Yeah, that's what I'm afraid of." So not about to say it aloud, but relatable. It's a lot easier to hate someone, or at least pretend to, if they're a total douchecanoe.

"You need a trash can?" Walking over and grabbing the questionably stained comforter from the bed I'd now been relegated to, I tossed it in Dean's general direction before going to grab the one from the twin bed in the adjoining room.

"No, but Sam's gonna." Shoving himself back up, Dean shrugged awkwardly out of his jacket and threw it on the floor before grabbing the comforter I'd thrown him and half-assedly tossing it over Sam. Sweet. Ineffective, but sweet.

"Yeah, I figured." Trying hard to wipe an admittedly stupid smile off my face (because come on, the whole 'Big Brother' thing is just adorable), I tossed Dean the twin comforter before walking back around the bed to fix the one dangling off Sam and onto the floor. "I'll take care of it."

"...thank you." Throwing an arm back over his eyes, Dean went quiet for long enough that I was starting to think he'd fallen asleep. Well, passed out. Same difference. It wasn't until I'd gone to the kitchenette and back again with a glass of water for each drunken dumbass that he spoke up again. "Can I ask you a question?" (More like 'Can I ashk ewe a queshon' but how annoying is that to read? Funny as fuck to hear, though.)

"Sure." Setting both glasses on the nightstand next to Dean, I picked up the jacket he'd dropped on the floor and tossed it onto the foot of my bed before sitting down next to it. "You can ask me anything you want. I just can't promise I'll answer."

"Fair." An inscrutable expression on his way-too-pretty-for-my-own-good face, Dean lifted his arm just enough to peek at me from underneath it. "Why aren't you scared of me?"

Perching on the edge of my bed with my elbows on my knees, I tried to figure out what prompted him to ask because what kind of a question is that? I still don't know what was going through his head to make him ask it and I don't think he does either. "Because you're not scary?"

"I have it on good authority that yes I am." Have you ever heard someone try to pronounce 'authority' when like a third of their blood supply is alcohol? You should, I highly recommend it. "I'm a 'big, intimidating dumbass with anger issues'. Also I'm a liar and a dick."

"Also shockingly self-aware." At least when inebriated. Weird how denial doesn't grip as tight when you're wasted. "I can agree with the big and the anger issues... And the liar, but you can't really help that, it's your job."

"So are you sayin' I'm not a dick?"

"The jury's still out on that one."


	4. Her Name Is Alice

I'd just managed to drift back off to 'I Dream of Jeannie' and the occasional faint snore from the other bed when a very specific sound jerked me right back awake again. A sound I was all too familiar with. You know the noise someone makes right before they throw up? That gross phlegmy gagging deep in the back of the throat? Yeah, it was that. Ew.

I was on my feet before my eyes were all the way open, managing to make it to the bed in time to get Sam rolled over and aimed toward the trash can. Well, mostly in time. Dude is heavy as _fuck_ and not the easiest to shove around without a little cooperation. "...shit."

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." Or at least I'm guessing that's what Sam was saying. Between hiccups, vomiting, and slurred words, it wasn't the easiest to make out. I'd had a fair amount of practice, though (and because of that practice I can definitively say that sick kids are easy. Hell, even drunk _adults _are easy. Drunk, sick adults the size of The Jolly Green Giant getting white-girl wasted and sobbing into their pillow? Not as easy).

"It's okay, Sam, I'll get it all cleaned up. Don't worry about it." Careful to avoid the mess on the floor, I perched on the edge of the bed, ignoring my own personal issues to rub Sam's back while he heaved up a lung in between sobs. Poor guy was a mess, and who could blame him? Anyone would be in his situation.

...also, seriously, the _fuck_ had they been drinking? Even half-digested and regurgitated, the smell of cheap whiskey was strong enough to make my head swim.

"I-I can't-" And more vomit. Christ. And no way I could get Dean up to help, he hadn't so much as twitched in spite of Sam puking his guts up six inches away. _Grand._

Sticking on a smile, I pushed away the tightness starting in my chest and ruthlessly squashed the little voice in my head telling me it was time to get away before I ended up with a full-blown panic attack. Those are always fun. ...wait, no. What's the opposite of fun? Because that. "Come on, Sam, let's go get you cleaned up."

* * *

Flipping open the toilet lid, I helped Sam sit on the floor next to it, trying not to show how eager I was to get him off me. A handshake I could handle if unavoidable. Even a hug on occasion. But this? This was pushing it.

Double-checking that he was aimed the right way before going to find a washcloth, I winced at the sound of liquid hitting porcelain. He was going to dehydrate at this rate. Twisting on the faucet, I ran the rag under the water, letting it warm up before ringing it out and turning back to kneel on the cold tile floor in front of him.

I waited until he was done with this round before gently wiping a layer of sweat and vomit off his face. His shaggy brown hair kept falling into his eyes, tears seeping out from half-closed lids to slide down his cheeks as he just kept repeating how sorry he was. (Trust me, it was way more heartbreaking than I can even begin to describe here. Even I was tearing up and I don't really cry easy. Or at least, I didn't used to. Having feelings sucks.)

"Shh, Sam, it's okay. It's gonna be okay." Smoothing Sam's hair off his forehead, I tossed the washcloth onto the back of the toilet tank before sitting back on my heels. I went for reassuring, using the same voice I'd used a thousand times with a thousand different kids. "I promise, everything's gonna be alright. Now-" Holding out my hands as he blinked blearily up at me, I gestured for him to lift his arms. "-come on, arms up, let's get you out of that dirty shirt and then we'll go get you tucked in."

* * *

Setting a cup of water on the nightstand next to the twin bed, I started to turn away, thinking Sam had passed back out again but no such luck. "...Skyler?"

"Yeah?" Biting back another sigh, I turned back and settled on the edge of the bed next to him. Smiling at him, I watched his hazel eyes trying to focus on my face. Not easy when your BAC is like .2. "I'm here, Sam. What do you need?"

"Would you stay with me until I fall asleep?" Okay, like ninety-eight percent sure that was a verbatim translation, or at least close enough. Either that, or something about sheep, and if that's the case then I really don't think I want to know anyway.

I looked at the open door that led into the other room—the much _bigger_ room. With _windows_—before closing my eyes for a second and taking a deep breath. "Of course I will."

Anxiety, I laugh in the face of it. Then I shove it down and hide it deep inside until it comes clawing back to the surface at inconvenient times to blow up in my face. (You'd think I'd eventually learn, but no.) (_Yeah, that's a family trait. -Dean_)

Climbing onto the bed next to Sam's bulk, I suppressed a shudder when he promptly curled up with his head in my lap. _Come on, Skye, it's no different than a five-year-old doing the same and you're fine with _that. Deep breaths. I could do this. I'd be fine. It's all good. Except it _wasn't_ the same, mostly because I've never met a two-hundred and twenty pound five-year-old that could break me in half.

Smoothing Sam's hair out of heavy-lidded eyes, I smiled tightly down at him, thankful he was too far gone to notice my obvious discomfort. He didn't need to feel bad about that on top of everything else he was going through.

"How about a story? I have Alice in Wonderland memorized." Or mostly, anyway. What can I say, I always identified with Alice. I must have read those books a hundred times as a kid. Still one of my all-time favorite authors.

Taking a vague nod as agreement, I closed my eyes again and leaned back against the rickety headboard, stroking his hair and trying to convince myself that he was just another kid on a Saturday night needing a bedtime story before I headed into the other room to do my homework. Yeah. Right.

"...Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank and of having nothing to do. Once or twice she had peeped into the book her sister was reading, but it had no pictures or conversations in it and what is the use of a book, thought Alice, without pictures or conversations…"

* * *

Leaning over the sink with my eyes tightly closed, I focused on the feel of the cold porcelain under my fingertips and tried to slow the rapid thud of my heart in my chest. I was _not_ having a heart attack and it was _not_ going to kill me, much as it might feel like it. Much as I sometimes might wish it would.

_Just keep swimming. Just keep swimming_. ...yeah, I have a mantra, and yeah, it's Dory. What can I say, it's excellent advice and sometimes it actually helps. Also, I have it tattooed on my ass. (...now figure out if I'm kidding.)

In retrospect, getting Sam cleaned up had been effortless compared to having him curled up with his head in my lap for I don't even know how long. I couldn't remember the last time I'd had any kind of extended contact with anyone over the age of eight, let alone a grown man I'd known for all of three days. Needless to say, I was not fond of it. At all.

Cracking my eyes open, I looked at my reflection with a wry smile, meeting my own eyes in the bathroom mirror and noting the pallor of my already pale-as-fuck skin and the stress lines around my lips. Yeah, I was fine. _Totally_ fine.

I was also (and still am) a big, fat liar. Well, okay, I don't think there's any universe where I qualify as either big or fat, but you get the idea.

Resting my forehead against the cool glass, I held a brief (very, very brief) internal debate. I desperately needed to blow off some steam, but no way I could do that with Drunk and Drunker passed out in the next room, which only left so many options. And that's when I had a fantastic thought: A big, old, fancy-ass place like this was bound to have a ballroom...right?

* * *

The sharp sound of the door latch clicking into place stabbed deep into my brain, waking me up and forcing me to pry my eyes open while reaching for a weapon I didn't have, which was more than enough to get me sitting up, though I don't think my brain had quite caught up to the fact that I was conscious yet.

Ungluing my tongue from the roof of my mouth, I scrubbed a hand over my face, trying to shake the alcohol-induced cobwebs. The fuck had Sammy and I been drinking the night before? It'd been cheap and strong and that's really all I remembered about it. Unfortunately, that was _all_ I had forgotten, everything else was crystal-fucking-clear. What were the chances Skyler had hit her head, blacked out, and wouldn't remember me making a total ass of myself?

Hauling my ass out of bed, it only took a few seconds to check the empty bathroom before my attention turned to the closed door that opened into the adjoining room.

...and here's where I have to admit—because Tink's threatened to feed me nothing but salad for a month if I'm not one-hundred percent honest about what I remember (and come on, that's basically a death threat)—that I did have a brief moment where I thought the worst…

Right up until I realized how fucking stupid that was. Skyler could barely shake hands without hyperventilating and Sam was in no shape to do anything but push rope, so why the hell had that thought even entered my mind? Stuffing a pointless surge of jealousy right back down where it came from, I opened the door to the other room and verified for myself that Sam was alone.

Alone and half-dressed, with a trash can and a cup of water next to the bed. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out Skye must have cleaned him up and put him to bed, the thick smell of vomit backing that assumption up. Dammit, she really _was_ a nice person. Like I needed _proof_. It'd have been so much simpler if she really had been the raging bitch she came off as but no, of course not, that'd be too easy.

...but if she wasn't here, then where the hell was she?


	5. All She Wants To Do Is Dance

Stepping out into the hall, I closed the door behind me, making sure I had the room key I'd stolen out of Dean's pocket before setting off to find the stairs. Can I take an elevator when I need to? Of course. Do I avoid it whenever possible because I have a frankly laughable list of fears and phobias? Of course. Hey, at least it's good exercise.

It didn't take long to get down the three flights to the lobby—or at least it wouldn't have if I hadn't stopped to gawk at every little thing I saw between point A and point B—the scuff of my boots on carpet and clicking on tile the only sounds echoing in the cavernous spaces as I made my way down. Seriously, the place was _huge_, and absolutely fantastic. It was old, sure, but it wasn't hard to see under the layer of years to how magnificent the place must have been in its day.

There was still artwork on the wall, yellowing and faded, but beautiful. I still to this day would _swear_ I saw what I'm pretty sure was an original Monet. Not that I know shit about art, but call it a hunch. Hell, even the stair railing was etched with delicate floral patterns worn down by the touch of thousands of hands over the decades.

How in the _hell_ were we the only people around? How could they even afford to keep the doors open with no patrons? The electric bill alone had to be astronomical. Still, a little weird or not, it was kind of nice to have the place to ourselves (or at least the illusion of it).

At that point, I still hadn't seen a single other soul, a fact that was remedied quickly enough when I went looking for the day manager. It only took a few minutes to find him sitting in a small office tucked in beside the front desk in the lobby, the door open and the soothing sounds of good jazz spilling from an honest-to-God phonograph that was probably four times older than I was. As was the man playing it.

"Excuse me?" Rapping a knuckle on the door, I hesitantly caught his attention, reluctant to pull it away from the book in front of him. "I'm sorry to bother you, but um-but I had a question I was hopin' maybe you could help me with?"

"That's quite alright, young lady." With a warm smile, the old man pushed his chair back and stood, walking around the desk to greet me. (I swear to god, if Bruce Wayne was looking for Alfred, I now knew where to find him and I admit to being mildly disappointed when he didn't have an English accent. Seriously, dude looked _just_ like Michael Gough.) "What can I do for you?"

I flashed him my best and brightest 'I'm-The-Sweetest-Little-Thing-Ever' smile and thickened my backwoods accent just a tad—which I have been told is very effective and I totally shouldn't do that—but what can I say, I do it because it works (even on people that should know better by now) and you should always be willing to use any weapon you've got in your arsenal (even if it drives some people up the wall). "Well, I don't want to put you to any trouble, but you don't happen to have a ballroom or somethin' somewhere, do you? Just a big open space...and maybe a radio lyin' around somewhere I could borrow? I promise I won't break nothin'."

"Indeed we do." I'd been worried that at best the old man would get irritated and brush me off (and at worst there'd be yelling), but he seemed delighted that I'd asked. He was kind of adorable in an 'I want to adopt you as my Grandpa' kind of way. "-and you are more than welcome to make use of it, if you'd like. Lord knows few enough do these days. May I ask why, though? Just out of curiosity."

"Well-Okay, so, this is probably gonna sound stupid but, see, I'm a dancer and I kinda always wanted to dance in a _real_ ballroom, like somethin' out of the movies and I figure a grand old place like this has just gotta have one." It was nothing but the truth. "And I could use the exercise." (Yeah, I probably should have just gone with the exercise thing instead of rambling about childhood dreams, but give me a break, I was tired and stressed.)

My sweet-as-pie smile slipped and for a second and the weariness I'd been trying to hide leaked through. It had been a _very_ long few days, after all. "Look, I've existed on nothing but gas station fruit and McDonald's dollar menu for like a week now-" Not to mention the enforced inactivity, which wasn't something I was used to (and I wasn't about to let years of training to go flying out the window for a few fast-food induced extra pounds, no matter the recent change in circumstances). _Some_ people, I won't name names, might be able to exist on a steady diet of burgers (extra onions) and fries without dying of malnutrition but sadly I am not one of them. (_Love you too, babe. -Dean) "_-and I am _dyin'_ to stretch my legs."

"I couldn't possibly think of a better reason than that." With a satisfied smile, the old man retrieved a ring of keys from a peg next to the door and stashed them in the pocket of his black slacks before offering me his hand. "My name is Charles and I'd be more than happy to open up the ballroom for you, Miss…?"

Charles. Almost as butlery as Alfred. My smile turned a little more forced but I managed to suck it up one more time and took his hand, steadfastly ignoring the purely psychological itch that was making me want to vibrate right out of my skin. "Bleu, but please call me Skye."

"Skye Bleu? What a lovely name for such a lovely and polite young woman."

(It really wasn't and I'm telling you right now, don't name your kids anything punny. Children are little assholes and they will rip you apart for something like that, especially if you're the quiet kid who's always sitting in the back with her nose in a book. Now don't get me wrong, I love kids, obviously, but I'm not going to sugarcoat it, they really can be evil incarnate.)

"This way please, Miss B-Skye." Correcting himself, Charles smiled as he led the way across the lobby, the heels of his highly polished dress shoes clicking against the dark, intricately-patterned marble floor. Lifting a hand, he waved vaguely to the far side of the room and a pair of matching wooden doors set within it. "We have a dining room as well, if you'd like to dine there. I'm afraid we no longer have a functioning kitchen, but it's a lovely room and I'd be happy to set a table if you'd like to bring your own meal." Glancing over his shoulder at me, very possibly to make sure I was still there as I don't think I'd made a sound the entire time, he smiled. "How long do you think you and your brothers will be staying?"

"Thank you, that's a very kind and generous offer." Brothers? Ha, in Alabama maybe. Roll tide. "Unfortunately, I don't think we'll be able to take you up on it." Hands clasped firmly behind my back, I followed Charles until he stopped in front of a truly massive set of wooden doors. Digging his keys back out of his pocket, he produced them (and the doors) with a flourish. I can't blame him, they deserved a flourish, or at least enough of one that my train of thought derailed for a second. Kind of like it's going to do right here, right now, at this very moment—

—Like I said, they were massive wooden doors, arching high above my head (no short jokes), dark and deeply etched with intricate designs, that, looking back, I'm pretty sure were all based around a bas relief of an Archangel. I'm going to take a shot in the dark here and say it was probably the Archangel _Gabriel_. _Why_ do I think it was probably Gabriel? ...no reason. No reason at all._—_

Clearing my throat, I turned my attention back to Charles and smiled, trying not to look like the poor country cousin and probably failing miserably. "I'm afraid Sam, my um-my youngest brother, is going through some things right now and we likely won't be venturing out much for a couple of days."

"Now that is a shame." Separating an ornate iron key from the others, Charles smiled at me over his shoulder as he unlocked the doors, pushing one open before taking a step back as it swung open on well-oiled hinges. "I think you're going to like this."

* * *

Stepping into the ballroom was like stepping into a movie, or maybe like the library from Beauty and the Beast. Every detail—from the vaulted ceiling high overhead, to the intricately laid parquet floor—was straight out of a fairytale. The sunlight streaming in through the floor-to-ceiling windows painted the hardwood floor in warm honey tones, lighting up the motes of dust in the air like tiny fireflies. I'll admit, I was more than a little impressed and there's really no way I can do it justice here.

"...holy shit." Coming to a dead-stop, I couldn't help but stare like a slack-jawed yokel. (Let's be fair, though, that's kind of exactly what I was.) "This is-this is-" Turning around to find Charles looking at me, beaming like he'd just given me a gift. Okay, so he kind of had. "Are you sure it's alright?"

"Of course it is. Besides, who's going to know?" Walking over to the wall beside the door, he flipped a couple of switches, turning on the twin chandeliers that graced the room and myriad pieces of crystal lit up like stars. "And you said something about a radio?"

"Yes, I did. I mean, I don't have one and music would be nice but it's-it's not necessary." Still a little awestruck, I was having a hard time focusing on the man in front of me, my eyes too busy taking in everything around me and filing them away for later. No way I'd _ever_ have an opportunity like this again. "This is all more than enough, thank you so much."

Charles seemed thrilled with my reaction and shook his head at me, grinning from ear to ear. "Well, aren't you the most well-mannered little thing. Just as sweet as you look." Yeah. Right. Ugh. "I think I can do you one better than a radio. Come with me, please."

* * *

"…_you had your maps drawn, you had other plans to hang your hopes on. Every road they led you down felt so wrong, so you found another way…"_

Music flooded the room, spilling from the partially opened doors and filling the lobby, pulling my attention over as soon as I stepped off the elevator. Violins and piano, I think. Not really my style, but pretty, and more than enough to catch my curiosity.

Making my way over, I stopped just this side of the double doors, one of them propped open just enough for me to see in. Sunlight streamed in through the windows, lighting up the room and the lone figure dancing in the middle of it.

"_...you've got a big heart. The way you see the world, it got you this far. You might have some bruises and a few scars, but you know you're gonna be okay…"_

I still remember exactly what she was wearing—plain black tank-top and leggings that left absolutely nothing to the imagination with some seriously retina searing socks—and she was…

Look, I'm not a writer or an artist or anything and I'm not great with words—and I can't remember the last time I stepped foot in a museum to save my life—but I damn well know a work of art when I see one. (_Now you know why I put up with his bullshit. Well, aside from the fact that he puts up with mine. -Tink)_

"_...sometimes the past can make the ground beneath you feel like quicksand. You don't have to worry, reach for my hand, I know you're gonna be okay…"_

I couldn't tell you how long I stood there watching her or even what I was thinking at the time. Hell, I don't think I was actually _thinking _anything at all. You ever have a moment—rare and maybe only a handful of them in your life—where everything just stops? You can't explain it and you can't describe it, but the whole world could stop right then and you'd be perfectly happy to live in that single memory forever? As shitty as my life gets—and trust me when I say it's gotten pretty damn bad—I'm lucky enough to say I've had my fair share of them and this definitely tops the list.

"_...and even though you're scared, you're stronger than you know. If you're lost out where the lights are blinding, caught in all the stars are hiding, that's when something wild calls you home…"_

In retrospect, there's not a doubt in my mind that that's the moment I fell head over heels. I didn't realize it then, of course, and likely I'd have denied it if I had, just like everything else. I have to say, though, it is kind of nice to be able to look back and pinpoint the exact minute my entire life changed into something I never dared to imagine.

"_...if you face the fear that keeps you frozen, chase the sky into the ocean, that's when something wild calls you home..."_


	6. A Little More Talk and a Lot Less Action

I know I must have gone back up to the room before Tink did, and I know I must have kicked off my boots and sat my ass down, but I don't remember doing any of it. I also know it was probably a good hour of staring at a TV screen before she got back, though I don't remember any of that either. Hell, I don't even remember what was going on in my own head, just how I felt at the time. Am I going to tell you? Hell no, it's not your business. I _will_ tell you that I probably would have sat there all damn day if nothing else had come along to get my attention, but something always does.

This time it was a knock at the door, which I figured was Tink, but I've been known to be wrong sometimes. (_I think the word he was looking for here is 'frequently'. -Tink) _Throwing off the chain lock, I opened it to find an old guy that, I kid you not, looked just like Michael Gough. For a second I wondered if he was going to tell me the Joker was running amok in Gotham. Seriously, though, how awesome would that be?

"I'm Charles, the manager here at The Arcadia. I'm sorry to bother you, but I was hoping to speak with Miss Bleu. Is she in?"

"No, she's-" And with her usual great timing (okay sometimes it's just creepy, really), that's about when 'Miss Bleu' stepped out into the hall. "Nevermind, there she is."

"So I see." Alfred—I don't care if his name was Charles, I'm calling him Alfred—turned to smile at her. "Miss Bleu, there you are. May I have a minute of your time?"

"Charles, of course you can, and I could've sworn I asked you to call me Skye." Dark hair damp with sweat and her skin flushed, Tink wrinkled her nose at the old man, smiling impishly up at him. Really, she seemed more relaxed and happy than I'd yet seen her, and that alone was almost enough to distract me from the tank-top and leggings. ...who am I kidding, no it wasn't. Turning that smile my way, she nodded in my direction. "I see you've met Dean."

"It's nice to meet you, Dean." Clasping his hands behind his back, Alfred kind of half-bowed. You know, like only an English butler that's not actually an English butler can do. "Actually, I'm so glad I caught you both. Now, I know you said you and your brothers-" _Brothers?_ Oh, fuck that. _Not_ a category that ever shows up in my Pornhub search history, thanks. "-most likely wouldn't be taking advantage of the dining room, but I was hoping to change your mind. You see, the hotel will be closing its doors soon. In fact, you're likely to be our last guests, and-Well, not to impose, but it would be my pleasure if you'd let me prepare a meal for you. Give the place a decent send off."

Well that explained why we seemed to be the only people around. More or less.

Meeting Tink's eyes, it wasn't hard to see how much she wanted to say yes. Not so much in her mannerisms or anything, but in the way that she lit up at the suggestion and then went dark again when she glanced at me. And I didn't like that. At all. (_Because he is, in fact, the Stay Puft marshmallow man. Have I mentioned? Goo. Gooooo. -Tink)_

"Well, I mean, that's so sweet of you, but Sam-"

"You know, I think Sam would be fine for an hour or two." A chance for a home-cooked meal alone with Skyler in what was bound to be one of the fanciest rooms I'd ever seen? Can't blame a guy for jumping on an offer like that and I've never regretted it for a second. (..._Goo. -Tink)_

And there they went again, those brown eyes lighting up like the star on a Christmas tree. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah, why not?" A viking horde couldn't have stopped me and I was _pretty_ sure Sam would be fine. And probably unconscious. "We won't be far. It's just downstairs, right?"

"Indeed it is, just across from the ballroom." Alfred clapped his hands together, thrilled that we'd accepted his invitation. "Excellent. Shall we say seven?"

"Sounds good to me."

"So, where'd you go?" Sitting down on the bed, I tried to look as if I hadn't a clue. And contrary to what you may hear elsewhere, I'm a very good liar. (_Okay, so I give him a hard time about it once in awhile, but he's right. He's very good. Not his fault I can read him like a dime-store novel. At least, I can __**now**__. -Tink_) "And when did you meet Alfred?"

"I've been in the Batcave, or damn near." Kicking the door shut behind her, Tink glanced at me as she slid the chain lock back into place, grinning from ear-to-ear, tickled pink that I'd seen the resemblance too. "You know, when I met him earlier, I almost asked him for an autograph. I'm glad it's not just me."

"Definitely not just you." Hands behind my head, I leaned back against the headboard, doing my damndest to keep my eyes on her face as she walked over to sit down on the other bed. Not the easiest thing ever at the time. Hell, not the easiest thing _now. _(_Smooth, Winchester. Very smooth. -Tink)_ "So did you get to drive the Batmobile?"

"Even better, I got to dance in the ballroom. You should see it, Dean. It's huge!" Pulling her feet up to sit cross-legged on her bed, she beamed at me, bouncing absently. I wouldn't have figured her for bubbly before then but she can definitely effervesce on occasion. Fancy word, I know, but I married a walking, talking dictionary. It rubs off.

"And the sound system! They have a stack of CDs as tall as I am, I kid you not." You know how some people just kind of light up when they're talking about something they're really passionate about? They get all animated and dorky and it's just the cutest thing ever and you could listen to it for hours without needing to understand a goddamn thing? Yeah, she does that. (_To be fair, so does he. -Tink) _"You know, I used to imagine myself dancin' somewhere just like it when I was a kid and- You know what? Nevermind. Sorry, it's not important. How's Sam?"

...and you know how some people have been dismissed or told to shut the fuck up so often that they eventually just stop trying to share the things that are important to them? The people that cut themselves off as soon as they get a little excited because they don't want to annoy anyone or think nobody cares? Yeah, she does that, too. Or at least, she used to. It took me awhile to catch on to that, though, and even longer for her to break the habit.

—Oh, and one more thing, just before I forget. If you're one of the people that does that—that brushes someone off or tells them to fuck off or looks down on and mocks them and you end up dimming that light in their eyes—Well, then from the very bottom of my heart, _**fuck you**_**.—**

"Sam's fine-" At least I was pretty sure. The occasional snore or whimper from the open door seemed to confirm. "-just sleepin' it off in the other room." I winced when my stomach growled, reminding me that I hadn't eaten since I couldn't actually remember when. Wait, no. It was the burger Skyler had brought me back in Jericho almost two days ago and that had been ice cold by the time I'd remembered it existed.

Glancing at my watch, I was more than a little surprised to see that it wasn't even noon yet. It felt so much later. "Okay, no way I'm gonna make it to dinner. You hungry? I could grab us some lunch if you wanna sit and keep an eye on Sammy for me."

"Sure, I can do that." Tossing her hair out of her eyes, she nodded ready agreement and I swear I could hear her own stomach grumbling like it was answering mine.

Looking thoughtful, she glanced down at herself, those loose strands falling right back into her eyes again. Letting out a breath, she smiled shyly at me from under her lashes (_I am __**not**_ _shy. -Tink), _one hand going up to twist itself in knots around the end of a rapidly fraying braid.

It took her a good second and I'd swear she just about gnawed a hole in her lip first, but she finally managed to open her mouth and speak. ""But um-I was wondering if-Do you think you could maybe do me a favor first?" Man she's cute when she's nervous and she's never been real great at asking for help. (_Pot, meet kettle. I just know you'll be the best of friends. -Tink) _"Or maybe when you get back. You know, whenever."

"No, probably not." It's probably a good thing I'm cute or I think Tink would have murdered me about a million times by now and I really don't need help dying, thanks. Been there, done that, bought multiple t-shirts. Still, she's pretty smart and it didn't take her too long to figure out I was just teasing. "Yeah, probably. What do you need, Tinkerbell?"

Pursing her lips at the use of her new nickname—which _did _stick, though you've probably figured that out already—she shook her head and chose to ignore it. "I just-I was just wondering about how long do you think it might take you to maybe break into every room on this floor to see if any of 'em have a shower?"

Let's ignore the fact that the answer to that question was probably just a quick phone call to Tink's new BFF Alfred down in his Batcave and go with it for a second, because why the _fuck_… "Something wrong with the bathtub?"

"No, there's nothin' wrong with the tub." Shaking her head and going right back to gnawing on her lip and pulling her hair out by the roots, she plastered a smile on her lips and forced herself to meet my eyes like it was just about the last thing on Earth she wanted to do. "Or at least, I don't think there is."

I could practically see her anxiety spiking out through the top of her head. And here I'd thought she was hard to read—and she fucking _is_, let me tell you—but she's much less so when she's relaxed and comfortable. Or rather, as I'd come to figure out, when she felt _safe_. Though why the hell anyone that barely knew me would feel safe around me, I have no fucking clue, you'd have to ask her. (_Seriously? Because he's a goddamn cream puff, which I think I've mentioned, and in another life he'dve been a fucking Eagle Scout. -Tink) _"I just-I don't like baths."

"You want me to pick the locks on how many doors because... you don't like baths?" Raising a brow, I couldn't help giving her a once-over for that one. Probably not the most flattering once-over either, but I didn't mean it, I was just confused and sometimes 'confusion' and 'asshole' look the same on me. "And this seems _reasonable_ to you?" I realize I could have worded that better but I have a long history of foot-in-mouth disease and there were a _lot_ of flare-ups in those early days. "I didn't mean-That didn't come out-"

"No, that's-that's alright." With a self-deprecating laugh, she shook her head, brushing it off like it wasn't a big deal. Take note here and learn from my own dumbass mistakes, when women do this, (or guys too for that matter), it usually means it is a _very_ big deal. "Look, Winchester, you've figured out I've got issues by now, yeah?"

That's an understatement, the girl has more issues than National Geographic. The issues are just a little different now than they were then. Or maybe there are just a lot more of them. "Yeah, I figured that out."

Pulling her knees up to her chest, she wrapped her arms around her legs and flashed me a grin, a little less stressed now that she'd resigned herself to the conversation. "Well, you can add aquaphobia to the list."

Not a word I'd heard before, but it didn't take Sherlock to figure out, and I'm not quite as dumb as my brother would like to think. "You're aqu...you're afraid of the water?"

"Yeah, and I already told you I'm claustrophobic." And there was that wry laugh again, edged with a bitter note that I'm not real fond of. "And just to get it out of the way, I'm also scared of porcelain dolls." Shrugging a shoulder, her smile turned a little more genuine and not at all bitter. "No real reason, they're just creepy. Oh, and I'm also scared of the dark. ...and I think that's about it, but I could be forgetting something." Hey, to be fair, there's some scary shit that lives in the dark and I'm not a huge fan either. I prefer to be able to see what's trying to eat me, thanks. "I can deal with showers and sinks and all that no problem, but anything bigger than a mud puddle could cause problems."

"So, what, you've never had a bath?" Now that was hard to imagine because who didn't love a nice hot bath? Maybe a little music, some bubbles… Shut up.

"No, I have." Apparently the hair thing was the only tell she had when she was on her guard because when she wasn't, she had them in spades. Seriously, she gave a whole new meaning to 'fidget spinner'. ...No, do _not_ go look up what a spinner is if you don't already know. I just have a dirty mind is all (and I don't regret it for a second). "Like, when I'd stay over at Anthony's, he didn't have a shower, but he'd sit out in the hall with the door open and talk to me the whole time so I wouldn't freak out like a lunatic and think I'm about to die."

—I have to say, it's hard not to like someone who's open about their insanity in a cute and mostly harmless kind of way. Everyone's crazy, you just have to find the kind of crazy you can live with.—

"...who's Anthony?"

Okay, I admit, that probably came out sharper than I wanted it to and I don't think I really need to spell out why, do I? She didn't comment on it though, only raising a brow at me before answering, "He's-it's kind of complicated."

"Cousin? Classmate? Friend? Prom date? Boyfriend?" Ok, so that came out without any input from my brain whatsoever. _Breathe, dumbass._ Yeah, no way she didn't notice _that_. Side note, I don't like blushing, it's embarrassing and it kind of pisses me off. (_It's __**real **__fucking cute, though. Brings out his freckles. 12/10 -Tink)_

"That's um-Okay. Andrew is my dance instructor, has been since I was like three." She rolled her eyes to the ceiling, giving the question some thought and pretending not to notice the fact that I was suddenly weird and awkward, like an unpleasant flashback to the teen years I thought I'd outgrown. Haha, nope. "He's kind of an asshole, but seriously a phenomenal dancer."

...wait, I thought we'd been talking about Anthony and now it was Andrew?

—It probably would have helped some if I could have kept my full attention on the actual conversation and not the way it looked when she took a deep breath in that tank-top and for the sake of my dignity we're going to pretend that's exactly how it happened. Thank you for your cooperation, it's appreciated.—

"Now, Andrew was with the American Ballet Theatre before he blew out his knee-" Pretty sure I was supposed to be impressed by that because she obviously was but mostly I was just trying to get my brain to function. (_It's okay, we can blame hormones. -Tink) _"-and _Anthony_ is Andrew's husband-" Oh. Well, that answers that. Okay, it didn't really, but it took care of my major concern at that point.

"-and they own Solo and Taps. Solo is the dance studio and Taps is a bar." I think it was at about that point she realized that still hadn't actually explained much."-and they kinda helped raise me? Like, they'd let me sleep on the couch sometimes and fed me and my first real job was tending bar at Solo-"

And that's about when she noticed she was starting to ramble again and winced, cutting herself off and smiling cheerfully over at me like she hadn't just started to tell me her entire life story. "Like I said, it's complicated."

"I'm startin' to get that." Complicated. Yeah. We wouldn't find out for quite some time exactly _how _complicated. "You know, I could do that."

Blinking blankly up at me, she couldn't seem to connect the dots. You want another fancy word? Non-sequitur. Now that's a five-dollar word right there. "...you could do what?"

"I can sit outside the door and talk to you so you can take a bath." Not exactly a hardship. The most difficult part would be not giving in to the urge to take a peek. I mean, I may be a lot of things, but I'm not a creep. At least, not _that _much of one. "I mean, if it'd help. When you're done, I can run out and get us lunch."

Eyes narrowing, she looked at me like I'd offered to run a 10K to raise money for starving orphans in Uganda and she couldn't figure out _why_. "You'd do that?"

"On one condition." So I'm not opposed to taking advantage of a situation. Sue me.

Besides, once I'd named a price, she actually relaxed a little. How fucked up is that, though? I mean really, think about that for a second. "What's the condition?"

"When we go to dinner, you tell me why."

"Why what?"

"Why you are the way you are." I know, I'm a nosy little shit—hard not to be in our line of work—but I'm fairly sure you could actually die of curiosity if you tried hard enough. "I have my theories but-"

"Why do you wanna know?" And there was that suspicion again, like she just couldn't possibly understand why someone would want to know more about her. Or like maybe she was afraid any information might be used as a weapon against her. Or maybe both. Both is always good.

"I don't-It's not-" Aggravating little... "I just figure, we're stuck together,right? Probably for awhile, or at least until we find my Dad." Which, much as I wanted to make sure he was okay, was starting to be a little less pressing than it had been a few days before. Talk about some internal conflict. "We might as well kiss and make up, right?"

"You wish." Sitting cross-legged with an elbow on her know and her chin in the palm of her hand, she bit back a giggle. And she is adorable when she giggles. Just saying. (_I do __**not**_ _giggle and it is __**not**_ _adorable. -Tink) _"So, what, you wanna be friends now?" _Yeah. Friends. Or something like that._ "Well, this should be interesting."

"Now why do you say that?"

"Just never really had a friend before."

Somehow I didn't really get the feeling she was exaggerating. At least, not by much. "You do now."


	7. Lady in the Water

Alright, time to tell you about the longest fifteen minutes of my life. Okay, maybe not, but it sure as hell felt like it at the time. Sitting there on the floor with my back against the wall, nothing but a few feet of air between me and a very naked and wet Skyler and have I mentioned that I've got a pretty active imagination? I've had torture sessions that were less effective. It didn't help that I could hear every little thing, from her clothes hitting the floor to her stepping into the water.

"So, what are we talkin' about?" _Because you're not the only one in desperate need of a distraction. _

"I don't know."

Head back, I kept my eyes firmly closed, strangling the urge to just glance around the doorframe to look at her when she spoke.

"You're the one doin' me the favor, I think that means you get to pick the topic."

"Hell, I don't know." Yeah, like I had anything close to a working brain cell right then. I couldn't think of a single thing and it really wasn't a 'let's talk about the first thing that pops up' kind of situation. Unfortunately. _Was that a curse?_ "You okay in there?"

"Nope, but I can deal for long enough to wash my hair." Which meant that the water sloshing now was her lying back to get her hair wet. So _that_ was probably her sitting back up, and sure enough, there was the click as she opened the shampoo. _Stop it. _"What about you and Sam, where are you from? I mean, before your Dad went off the rails."

"He didn't-" Okay, yeah he did. Couldn't really deny that. Still can't. Dammit. "We were born in Lawrence, Kansas. Lived there until Mom was killed. After that we moved around a lot, mostly motel to motel." The more things change, the more things stay the same. Or so they say, whoever the fuck 'they' is. "How 'bout you?"

"I know where Lawrence is." Another slosh and a gasp and I was pretty sure she was sliding down again to rinse her hair. She really didn't waste any time, which, you know, thank whatever god for small favors because if she didn't hurry up, I was going to forget how to breathe and pass out. "I'm from just over the Oklahoma border, I was born in Bartlesville. Moved around a lot, but always kinda stuck to the same general area."

"You lived with your grandmother, right?" I remembered her mentioning something about a grandmother at some point but couldn't actually remember what she'd said. Granted, that'd been a few days before when I was trying real hard to pretend she didn't exist. "...Beatrice?"

"That's right." Was it just me or did she sound pleased that I'd remembered? Pretty sure it wasn't just me. "I lived with Grandma for a few weeks or months here and there. Probably the only reason I didn't turn out _way_ more fucked up than I already am." The trickle of water and another plastic click as she opened what I'm guessing was the conditioner. No way I should be able to smell it from there, but that really didn't seem to matter because I totally could. "Grandma lives-She _lived_ in a house out in the middle of bumfuck nowhere outside of Bartlesville for most of her life."

"When did she die?"

"A few months ago, her body just hasn't got the memo yet."

It doesn't help that my mind immediately goes to zombies and shit. To be fair, I deal with zombies and shit on a regular basis, so you can't really blame me.

"She's got Alzheimer's. That's uh-" A splash of water and a gasp, but she continued before I could do more than crack an eyelid. "-that's actually why I was in New Orleans. There's a care home there that specializes in Alzheimer's and other kinds of dementia. One of the best in the country, or at least it better be, it's costing her enough." I must have been getting better at reading her voice—which is probably a real good thing—because it didn't take more than a few seconds for me to hear past the exasperation to the pain underneath it. "The doctors are sayin' she's maybe got a year left, so that's fun."

What the hell are you supposed to say to something like that? 'I'm sorry' just doesn't really cut it, but what else is there? "That's really shitty."

"Yeah, it is." I heard her take the plug out, the few inches of water she'd run swirling down the drain followed by the squeak of wet skin on porcelain and a footstep on tile. I know Tink likes to claim that I'm a good guy and all—okay not _then_, but eventually—but I'll admit it took a hell of a lot not to turn around right then. "So what about you? Do you have any other family or is it just you and Sam and John?"

"For the most part." Bouncing the back of my head against the wall repeatedly, I tried not to imagine dark hair falling in a damp, tangled mass to her waist while water rolled down pale skin to… Okay, so I wasn't so great at the not imagining part. Big surprise, I'm sure. "We've got an Uncle we've never met and a couple of good friends that stepped up and took us in once in awhile when Dad couldn't bring us on a job."

"That's um-That's Pastor Jim and Bobby, right?" It was my turn to be pleased that she'd remembered. Of course, back then I didn't know she'd even been paying attention. _Now_ I know that she doesn't forget _shit_ and she has absolutely no problem bringing up something I said six _years_ ago if she thinks it's somehow relevant to the current conversation. (_And when he says 'current conversation', he means 'argument we had three months ago and he can't let go of because he's a stubborn ass'. -Tink) _

"Hey, who knew you actually listen when I talk." Have I mentioned that I have a habit of things coming out more dickish than I mean them to? Because that should probably be mentioned several times. Tink, on the other hand, totally means it because she's mean. (_Oh, I am not, fuck you very much. I am the sweetest, kindest, most gentlest soul ever. ...aaand Dean's laughing behind me. Do you see what I have to put up with? -Tink) _

"You talk a lot, I don't have much choice."

"I do not." That's a lie, I totally do, just only around certain people. Apparently, to everyone else, I come off as 'brooding' and 'terse' and 'a great big bag of dicks', and that's a direct quote from a guy I know that really needs to keep his fucking nose out of our business. (_To quote that guys brother, who also happens to be a great big bag of dicks, 'Get over it already.' -Tink) _ "Okay, yeah, well maybe if you talked more."

"I thought I rambled too much and you wanted me to shut up?"

"I said you rambled, I never said I wanted you to shut up." Yeah, couldn't really deny that first part, I'd only said it about a hundred times. I hadn't actually meant it, but I had said it. And of course now I felt bad about it. _Great._ On the plus side, a little guilt is a pretty decent distraction when you're trying hard not to think about other things. "How else am I gonna learn why I should hate geese?"

"I'm tellin' you, they're evil. Just wait, someday you'll see."

I opened my eyes, tilting my head back to look up at her as she stepped out of the bathroom, dressed in what I was pretty sure were the jeans she'd been wearing yesterday and the tank-top she'd been dancing in. And I'm not complaining. At all. It's a great look and I wholeheartedly endorse it.

Crossing her arms, she leaned back against the door frame, eyeing me as if she didn't believe a word of it. So much skepticism in such a tiny package. ...and here I thought I'd been getting used to that honeysuckle-flower-sweet whatever-the-fuck but turns out I was very wrong. Also turns out there's a reason for that, but I'm not actually allowed to tell you so... Whoops.

"Do you really not mind or are you just givin' me shit?"

"I really don't mind and I'm not just givin' you shit." Considering I'd been giving her shit for days—that she'd been giving right back—it was a fair question. "At least, not right now. I make no promises for later." Getting to my feet, I grinned down at her. Probably should have just gone ahead and kept my big mouth shut, and you'd think I'd learn to eventually, but no. "You really are all kinds of messed up, aren't you?"

"And you're not?" Between one breath and the next, her smile had disappeared and she didn't give away so much as a twitch. For a second, I really thought I'd fucked up. Have I mentioned that she's kind of a bitch? (_Don't let him fool you, he loves it. -Tink)_

"That's not-I didn't mean-"

I prefer not to wonder how big of a gibbering idiot I might have become if she hadn't cracked after the first five seconds, flashing a grin at me that lit up the whole damn room. "God, Winchester, you _suck_ at this game."

—Have you ever really cared about someone and really wanted to strangle them all at the same time? That's fun. And then of course a heartbeat after making me wonder just how long it'd take until she lost consciousness, she goes and says something all sweet and I _hate_ that and it's not playing fair and she does it _all the time. (Is it my fault he's a total pushover? I don't think so. -Tink)_—

"I uh-I didn't mean that crack about your Dad earlier." Fun fact: When Tink blushes, the color creeps up the back of her neck and turns the tips of her ears bright pink and it is the most endearing fucking thing I have ever seen and I have since made it my mission in life to make her blush at every possible opportunity. "I know-I know that you're kinda touchy about your parents and I can relate and I'm sorry." Clearing her throat, she finally looked up at me, meeting my eyes as she forced the words out past what must have been a pretty big lump of pride. "Sometimes the filter between my brain and my mouth doesn't work so great but I hardly ever mean it."

I dare anybody to try staying aggravated with that. Can't do it. Not possible. Which I'm telling you right now is annoying as all hell when we're in the middle of a fight and she pulls that bullshit. Sometimes I just want to stay mad for a minute, but no. (_Aww, you poor thing. I am __**so sorry**__. How will I ever forgive myself. Here, hold this tiny violin. -Tink)_

"Don't worry about it, I'm uh-I'm kind of the same way."

"...I've noticed."


	8. A Little Goes A Long Way

"Hey, Sam." Poking my head into the adjoining room, I studied my little brother for a second. From my own foggy memory of the night before, he wouldn't be fully sober for awhile yet but at least he was breathing, which was something. "You alive?"

Cracking a lid, Sam looked up at me with bloodshot eyes. He looked like shit, seriously the worst I'd seen him. At least, up to that point. I kind of wish I could still say that. When he finally managed to get a few words out, he sounded like he'd been crying half the night. Hell, he probably had been. Not really something he likes to talk about, even now. "No, go away."

Arms crossed, I leaned against the doorframe, one eye on Sam and one eye on Skyler as she flipped the TV channels and pretended not to listen in. How do I know she was pretending? Because she's just as much of a nosy little shit a I am. (_That's true, I am, and I was. -Tink) _"I'm gonna run out and get food, what do you want?"

"Nothing." Sam closed his eyes and turned away, mumbling barely loud enough to be heard, "Go away."

"Come on, Sammy." Stepping away from the door, I closed it firmly behind me, shutting out Tinkerbell and the sounds of the Golden Girls theme song coming from the TV. (_I want to be Sophia when I grow up. -Tink) _"You gotta eat somethin', man." It couldn't have been more than half a step from the door to the bed, the room was that small. No wonder Tink had decided against it. "Whatever you want, I'll get it."

"I want you to go away and leave me the fuck alone."

"Okay, have it your way." Couldn't really blame the guy for wanting to shut himself off. I couldn't even imagine what he'd been through. Hell, I don't have to imagine anymore, I've been there, and I'll tell you right now, it _never_ gets any easier. "Skye's gonna be in the other room if you need anything."

Half-turning to glare belligerently up at me, Sam expressed his true feelings with a single finger and a growl. "I don't need a babysitter, Dean."

_The hell he didn't. _"The hell you don't. I'll be back soon, don't do anything stupid while I'm gone."

"Fuck off."

* * *

Sitting down on the bed I'd tried to sleep in the night before, I winced as Sam slammed the door about half an inch from the back of Dean's head. That could have hurt and I'd've been the one cleaning up the mess. "So, how's Sam?"

"Not great."

Dean ran a hand through his dark hair, flashing me a strained smile. Really, he didn't look much better than Sam sounded, like a watchspring wound a little too tight. I didn't quite know why at the time—not that I'm stupid or blind or anything, I just didn't have the experience then that I do now (_Yeah, there's a word for that. It's called __**naive**__. -Dean)_—but it was pretty obvious to me that he just needed out for awhile and he was using a food run as a good excuse. It's not like we couldn't get something delivered, after all, but I wasn't about to say as much.

"Keep an eye on him for me?"

"I can do that." Scooting back up against the headboard, I tried to keep my attention on the TV across the room and not on Dean as he got ready to go. Which, you know, not easy. He was hot as hell then (and he's only gotten better with age) and I fully admit my eyes were superglued to his ass a good portion of the time. Of course, I always pretended they weren't as soon as he turned around, but I don't think I was near as subtle as I would have liked. "...but what am I supposed to do if he does try 'somethin' stupid'? Lock him in the bathroom?"

"If you have to." Sitting on the end of the other bed, Dean pulled his boots on before getting back to his feet and retrieving his jacket from where it'd ended up on the floor. Shrugging it on, he looked over at me for a second, rolling his eyes before digging into his pocket and coming up with a pen and a notepad. (I maintain that leather jacket had pockets that were, in fact, the TARDIS.) (_Nerd. -Dean)_

Scribbling something down, he ripped off the sheet of paper and folded it in half before holding it out to me. "My phone number. If he becomes a problem, call me."

"And I'm supposed to do that how?" Leaning over, I snagged the paper out of his fingers, raising a brow at him as I glanced around the room before looking back up to meet those gorgeous green eyes of his. "I don't have a phone and there's not one in the room."

"Of course you don't and of course there isn't." Looking frustrated for more reasons than I was aware of at the time, Dean tucked his hands in his jacket pockets and huffed out a breath as he looked back down at me. "Alright, well, I'm sure you'll figure something out."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence, I'll do my best to keep him from jumping out a window." At least I didn't actually have to worry about that unless Sam decided to emerge from his windowless lair.

"Thanks." Turning away, Dean hesitated, looking thoughtful before turning back to me. I could see his brain clicking, formulating the words. Have I mentioned he's really adorable? And has freckles. So. Many. Freckles. "...and thanks for takin' care of him this morning. I appreciate it and I'm sure he does too."

"Don't worry about it." For the record, I didn't (and still don't) take compliments or thanks or basically acknowledgement of any kind very easy. It makes me uncomfortable. I'm a lot better about it now than I was back then, but it's still very much a work in progress. I'm a mess, I know, but I promise there's a very good reason for all of it; namely deep psychological trauma. Fun times! "Anyone would've done the same."

"No, they wouldn't." Cynical, isn't he? Yeah, that's actually gotten worse over the years. Dude has serious trust issues. (And there's a reason for that, too, but that's several hundred stories for a later time. If you want to know, you'll just have to stick around and read the rest of my stupid journal. Ha!) "Seriously, thank you."

"...you're welcome." Gnawing on my lip, I watched Dean dig the car keys out of his pocket, internally debating on whether or not I should say anything. It took a minute, but eventually my concern for the Sasquatch in the other room overcame my uneasiness at the fact that it was none of my damn business. "Hey, Dean?" Sliding to the edge of the bed, I stood, tucking my hands into the back pockets of my jeans. God, I must have looked so anxious when there was no real reason to be. "It's-Last night...or this morning, I guess, when Sam was sick-"

Raising a brow, the car keys dangling from his fingers, Dean prompted me to finish when I hesitated, "What is it, Tinkerbell?"

"It's just, he kept saying how sorry he was." Even thinking about it now makes me want to tear up. Stupid, lovable, shaggy-headed puppy making me empathize with him. I hate that. I don't like feeling pain on my _own_ behalf, let alone somebody else that I barely fucking _knew_. "I'm just worried about him, is all."

"Hell, I'd be apologizing if I'd made a big ass mess too."

"Yeah, except it wasn't me he was apologizing to..."


	9. Nightmares and Dreamscapes

_She stood alone, as always, wrapped in thick black shadows that filled the emptiness surrounding her. There were no walls, no ceiling, no sound, nothing but the warped and splintering boards beneath her feet and the endless darkness that pressed against her until she couldn't move. _

_Couldn't breathe. _

_Couldn't think…_

_Light. _

_Blinding, searing light slicing its way into her brain. She tried to turn away, to close her eyes, to block the agony that spread wherever the light touched but it was all in vain. Even the nothing was preferable to __**this**__. _

_And then, as always, the music started…_

_Growing from the faintest whisper, it rose up around her, louder and louder as it turned and shifted from the beautiful melody it was supposed to be to a raucous cacophony that threatened to tear her apart and scatter the pieces. And, as always, she knew what was expected of her, what she had to do to make the torment end..._

_The tightness in her chest eased as she lifted an arm. _

_The scorching radiance dimmed when she opened her eyes. _

_The suffocating darkness receded as she took a step._

_She spun as the dissonant noise faded into the familiar and once-loved notes of 'Für Elise', everything blurring around her until the lights bled into shadow and shadow seeped into music and it all rained down to puddle thickly on the floor around her, trying to snare her ankles. _

_A glint sparked out of the corner of an eye and she slowed, her mouth going dry and sweat beading on her lip as dread crept up to overwhelm her. She knew what was coming and she was powerless to stop it. She always was. She also knew she should just get it over with, then she could wake up and get on with it, but it was always such a torment to take that first step…_

_Closing her eyes, she reluctantly turned to face the mirror that had sprung up out of the empty to stretch away into the void. It had no beginning and no end, just an endless expanse of silvered glass that reflected the emptiness mercilessly back at her. _

_Slowly she stepped closer and raised a hand to touch the glass. She didn't want to. If she'd had a choice, she'd have run screaming in the other direction, but she didn't have a choice. _

_She never did._

_The mirror rippled at her touch, creaking and moaning under her fingers as cracks sprouted and spiderwebbed, marring its perfection. She tried to snatch her hand back, pulling desperately against the invisible force that held her fast, but her struggle was for nothing. _

_Always for nothing._

_She watched the cracks spread and widen, the sound of her own heartbeat thundering in her ears loud enough to drown out the incessantly repeating notes that still pulsed in the air around her. _

_...__**No. Please, no. I don't want to do this again. Please, make it stop...**_

_But no, she couldn't leave, couldn't hide, couldn't run away or fight back. She was stuck watching as those cracks opened wider and wider until the glass inevitably shattered and rained down around her in a glittering ruin that sliced flesh to bone. _

_...but it wasn't the glass she feared. It wasn't the pain or the blood that streamed from a hundred cuts to pool around her feet..._

_Smoke rolled over her, thick and acrid as a lit match, sprouting teeth and talons as it swirled around her, shrieking with the voices of innumerable damned souls. Delicate tendrils of inky mist reached for her, wrapping around her, smoothing her sweat-soaked hair and caressing her skin as it whispered reassurances in her ear. _

_It wanted in. It was desperate and hungry and it would be so easy and everything would be okay if she'd just let it in…_

_It promised an end to loneliness and pain and the everyday slogging misery of existence. _

_It lied. It always lied. _

_And she always said yes. _

_With a triumphant howl that rang like church bells in her ears, it invaded, forcing its way in through every cut and flaw both physical and emotional and she was forced to watch in growing horror as all trace of color drained away and her skin turned as pale and flawless as a porcelain doll. _

_It wasn't until her eyes turned black and her skin cracked that she opened her mouth to scream…_

* * *

I came awake all at once, biting back the scream that had jammed in my throat as I lashed out blindly at whoever the hell had just grabbed my shoulder. (Because it's just such a huge mystery, I wonder who it could possibly be...)

"Ow! Hey, watch it." Dean took a hasty step back with a pained look on his stupidly pretty face, rubbing his arm where I'd just popped him one. (_In my defense, I'd like to point out that I wasn't expecting to get smacked and Tink may be very small, but it is __**all**_ _muscle and she hits like a fucking brick. -Dean) _

—Hey, it's totally his own fault. It's not like he didn't know by then that I'm both a shitty sleeper and that I _didn't like to be touched._ So, you know, serves him right and I don't even feel bad about it. (_Yeah, she does, or she wouldn't be spouting off about it. I'd like to point out that she's beaten my ass way worse, more than once, __**on purpose,**_ _but_ _**this**_ _she feels guilty about? ...Okay, maybe I should clarify here because I really don't want anyone to get the wrong idea. She's my __**sparring partner. **__Damn good one, too. -Dean)—_

"It sounded like you were having a bad dream, I was just tryin' to wake you up. You alright?"

"Yeah, I'm good. Was just a-" ...and that's about when I realized he was only wearing jeans. And nothing else.

—Now, sorry to interrupt myself yet again, but I want you to keep in mind here that up to this point, while I'd been around the man for like just over a week, I had only seen him fully dressed. You know, boots/jeans/t-shirt/long-sleeved flannel, and more often than not a jacket on top of all that. (And do _not _get me started on the serious kink this whole damn family has for flannel. My closet looks like a lumberjack exploded.) To put it bluntly, I'd never seen him without a shirt.

And also please keep in mind that I was (almost) nineteen, _seriously_ affection deprived, and already physically attracted to the man to an unsettling degree. Now add in the fact that dude is built like a linebacker and almost as hot as I think he is and you can imagine the look on my face right about then. Yeah, it was just as funny as you're thinking.

...and now we return to our regularly scheduled program where, if you'll recall, I had just started stuttering and blushing like a starstruck tween at a Backstreet Boys concert.—

"-Just a, um-" It's like someone had opened my skull and scooped out my brain and then replaced it with cotton candy and TV static. There might have been drool. "Just a-"

"Just a bad dream?" A little smile played at the corners of his lips—something between a smirk and one of those boyishly charming grins of his—and there wasn't a doubt in my malfunctioning mind that he knew _exactly_ what my problem was and while I'd like to say that I totally played it off as me just being fuzzy because I'd been abruptly awakened from a horrible dream…

I'd _like_ to, but I can't, and it's now one of those memories that randomly pops into my head every few years and makes me die a little on the inside. Like now.

"You wanna talk about it?"

And he didn't even make a smart remark about my obviously rampant hormones, instead focusing on my dream. _I _totally would have said something snarky, but he's a better person than I am. (_No. I'm not. -Dean)_

"Nope, I'm good." What was I going to say? _Yeah, sure. I just have this recurring dream where a cloud of evil turns me into a porcelain ballerina and I shatter into a million pieces?_ Because _that's_ sane. Scrubbing a hand over my face, I shook the remnants of my nightmare out of my head while somehow managing to peel my gaze away from his chest. And biceps. And hips. And what was I saying again… (_Oh, I am __**totally **__getting laid tonight. -Dean) _ "What time is it?"

Glancing at the hideously clunky black plastic thing on his wrist that he called a watch, Dean cleared his throat before answering, "About ten to six."

"Shit. Seriously?" Scooting to the edge of the bed, I winced as my stomach growled at me, forcefully reminding me that I hadn't eaten anything since Jericho and I'd apparently missed out on lunch. "Sorry, I didn't mean to pass out like that. Why didn't you wake me up when you got back?"

"Because Sam said they'd never find my body if I did." Chuckling, Dean stepped back into the bathroom, resuming whatever I'd apparently interrupted. Shaving, if the scent drifting out of the bathroom and the bit of foam on his ear was anything to go by. "I don't know what you did for him last night, but you got yourself a fan."

"I just cleaned him up and talked to him until he fell asleep, is all." I sat on the edge of the bed and closed my eyes for a second, listening to the water running in the sink and trying to wake up the part of my brain that said Dean Winchester was a No Good-Horrible-Terrible-Awful-Very Bad-Idea, because apparently that little voice was choosing to sleep in today. "It's not a big deal."

"Uh huh." The water shut off and Dean re-emerged from the bathroom with a towel in hand, skin still wet where he'd rinsed the last of the shaving cream away. Well, except for that one bit still on his ear but I found that I didn't really want to say anything to him about it. It's weird how the small things are the most endearing. (_Agreed. -Dean) _

Making his way across the room, he gave his damp hair—because apparently he'd taken a bath, too, and I'd just slept right through it and then hadn't even _noticed_—a final scuff with the towel before tossing it onto the dresser next to the TV and retrieving a clean t-shirt from his duffel bag.

Pulling his shirt on over his head, he shrugged it into place and glanced at his watch again. "You might wanna think about getting ready for our 'date'."

"Is that what we're callin' it?" Look at me, all making eye contact and everything like an 'adult' and totally pretending I _hadn't_ just been leering at his bare flesh like an inebriated frat boy over a hot coed. _Go me. _

"No, that's what Alfred called it." Way to play it safe, Winchester. Joke it's a 'date' when you wouldn't mind it actually _being_ one and if you get rejected, well, it wasn't like you were serious anyway. Like asking someone out on April Fool's day. Classic. (_Don't pull that shit, people. It's a dick move no matter the motivation. Same goes for the fake 'I'm pregnant/April Fool' bullshit. Just no. Number one life lesson right here: Don't be a dick. -Dean)_ "I'm just goin' along 'cause I'm hopin' for real food."

I'd been leaning half off the bed while he finished getting dressed, digging around in my bag for my brush so I could at least try to look somewhat presentable for our not-a-date, when he had to go and make a comment about food. Which gave me an idea. Maybe not a fully-formed, it's-all-consciously-there kind of idea, but definitely an idea. Something about 'the way to a man's heart' and 'stomach'...

Straightening up with brush in hand, I glanced at the kitchenette as I pulled the hair-tie off the end of my braid and started to untangle the thick mass of pain-in-my-ass that I had to deal with every day. "I can do that."

"...do what?"

"Make real food. Like meatloaf and cookies and shit." Flinching as the brush snagged in a particularly vicious snarl, I probably let out a few choice words. Or at least thought them. "I mean, we'd have to go get supplies, but if we're gonna be here a few days and we have a kitchen, we might as well use it." Too busy getting my hair brushed out and back up into its normal low-maintenance style, I hadn't noticed the way he was looking at me until I glanced up. "...what?"

"You can cook?" You'd think he'd just won a ten thousand dollar scratch-off or a tour of the Playboy mansion. Lucky for me, the man is very easily pleased. "Seriously? You're not just fuckin' with me?"

"I mean, I'm not gonna challenge Gordon Ramsay to a cook-off, but I'm not gonna poison anybody." Patting the end of my hair into place over a shoulder, I stowed my brush back in my bag and stood up, flashing Dean a grin. "At least, not on accident. There is, however, a condition." Because turnabout is fair play.

"Of course there is." Arms crossed, Dean leaned a hip against the dresser, looking unsurprised and very amused and possibly a little smug though I have no idea what the hell he'd have to be smug about right then. "What is it?"

"You have to share, too."

I can't really blame him for being a little confused at the apparent non-sequitur. "...share what?"

"Our 'date'." He didn't use air quotes when _he_ said it but, again, he's a better person than I am. "You made me agree to share my issues. You have to share, too." Getting a good look at the expression on his face while I went to retrieve my boots, you'd think I'd kicked a puppy. (_Not a big dog person. -Dean) _"You started it, Winchester, so you can stop lookin' at me like that."

With a long-suffering sigh that started somewhere under his boots and rumbled up through all seventy-four inches of him, he shrugged a shoulder, apparently resigned to his fate. "I guess that's fair."

"Damn straight it is."


	10. Intermission

Hands in the back pockets of my jeans (okay they're jeggings because comfort, but that is _such_ a stupid word), I watched Dean make sure the hotel room door had latched securely before he stuck the key in the lock. Hesitating, he glanced back at me. "You got everything?"

"We're only goin' downstairs, Winchester, what else do I need?" ...of course, once he said it, I had to check anyway because there's always that 'did I leave the oven on' thing going on in my head. Tank-top, check. 'Jeggings', check. Wallet, check. Hell, I'd even put my boots on. "You think Sam's gonna be alright alone for an hour?"

"Yeah, I'm sure he'll be fine." With a click, he turned the key and dropped it into the front pocket of his jeans before turning away, his black biker boots silent on the thick red-and-orange geometric carpet that ran the length of the hallway. "Come on or we're gonna be late."

"Where are you going?" I'd already started heading in the opposite direction, absolutely starving and eager to get to the food part of the evening. "The elevator's this way."

Turning slowly back around to face me, Dean raised a brow as he jerked his head in the direction he'd started in before saying one of the most thoughtful things anyone has ever said to me in my entire life. "I kind of figured you'd prefer the stairs."

"I do usually, yeah, but I figured you'd rather take the elevator." Because who wouldn't? I mean, other than me and the cast of Devil. "I can suck it up and deal for a two-minute trip."

"Why should you have to?"

Now, I've had a lot of people ask me (with varying degrees of disbelief that occasionally borders on the insulting) how I could possibly be with a guy like Dean Winchester. I know he doesn't have the best reputation and depending on who you ask he's everything from a heroic figure straight out of myth to a demon from the depths of hell, but none of that is who he really is.

Underneath all the blood and death and pain (and flannel), he is the most unthinkingly thoughtful person I have ever met. It's not the big things. It's not fancy dinners and gourmet chocolates and expensive jewelry, it's a jacket on a chilly day or a stupid stack of CDs or 'why should you have to'.

"I-I don't-" I know, the stammer is a little obnoxious. (Rest assured, I did eventually grow out of it. Mostly.) But can you blame me? I'd spent nineteen years bending till I broke to fit into the world around me and nobody had ever bent for me and when someone finally _did,_ it was a virtual stranger that—the last twenty-four hours or so notwithstanding—had been stuck with me against his will and barely tolerated my existence.

For the life of me, I couldn't get out anything past 'I-I don't-'. Hell, I don't even know what I would have said if I could have said it. My train of thought had officially derailed and killed all passengers save for maybe one guy left lost and confused as he stumbled around the wreckage. It wasn't pretty. But, you know, Batman to the rescue…

Hands tucked into his pockets, Dean turned on that hundred-watt smile and grinned at me like a little boy who'd just been praised for doing 'just such a great job'. He didn't know what the job _was_, he just knew he'd done good (_Sounds more like a Golden Retriever to me. -Dean). _Then he went and did it again, skating right by my newfound inability to form a coherent sentence like he hadn't even noticed, abruptly shifting the topic. "Race you down."

And before I could process what in the hell he meant, he was gone.

"...oh, that bowlegged son of a _bitch._"

* * *

Breathless, I came skidding to an abrupt halt, nearly crashing into Dean when he stopped short just past the last step. Biting back a giggle, I shouldered my way past before rounding on him, hands on my hips as I frowned up into his smug face. "You cheating bastard."

"I'd like to see you prove it."

For just a second, as the smile started to fade from his lips and confusion furrowed his brow, I almost felt bad. _Almost._ And then I remembered that he'd been a straight up asshole to me for a good portion of the past week and got over it. What can I say, I'm a little petty and enjoy the occasional payback. Also it was just funny and I'm a mean person. (_It's true, she's terrible. I'm blinking SOS right now. -Dean)._

I flipped him off before crossing my arms, glaring daggers at him and just barely managing to keep a grin off my face and a laugh out of my voice. Not always easy, but almost always worth it. "Fuck you, fight me."

"...wait." Narrowing those fanfiction-green eyes at me, Dean gave me a long look and I swear I just about heard something click in his brain. Aaand that was it, the beginning of the end. After this, he learned to read me way too damn quick and I'm still a little salty about it, to be honest. "Are you really pissed or are you just bein' a pain in my ass again because I really can't tell."

"Again? I haven't been a pain in your ass _yet." _Just like that, the carefully cultivated look of aggravation I'd had pasted on my features faded, quickly replaced with an exaggeratedly lascivious grin. (_Walking. Talking. Dictionary. -Dean) _"But I mean, if you're into that, maybe someday if you play your cards right and ask real nice…"

Then it was his turn to look aggravated. Can't really blame him, I _was_ being a pain in the ass and it was very much on purpose. (Though it might also have been because he couldn't tell if I was flirting or not. Hell, _I_ couldn't even tell if I was flirting or not.) And unfortunately, while I may be kind of petty and a little mean, I also have an overactive Jiminy Cricket, which has caused me no end of aggravation over the years. "Sorry. I just-I'm not tryin' to be a brat, Dean, it just comes naturally." There. See? I can do the adult thing and apologize when necessary. "...but you _did_ cheat."

His eyes narrowed,the tip of his tongue resting on his lips, gave me a long once-over. Shaking his head, he smirked at me. "Like you'd have had a chance anyway, Ballerina Barbie."

_...__**No. Please no. I don't want to do this anymore. Please, I don't want to do this anymore…**_

Needless to say, really not my favorite nickname ever. Good thing for me—and probably for Dean—I'd had several years of experience brushing off shit that poked at memories I'd rather they didn't, letting it slide off me like water off a goddamn goose. "Oh, please, Winchester. Anything you can do, I can do better."

Blinking at me, he took a second to reply, as if he couldn't really believe anyone would say that. "Did you just quote a musical at me?"

The fact that he knew even that much was a little surprising and I swear, I couldn't help it, I had to open my big mouth, "If you can tell me what musical, I'll do your laundry for a month."

He took his sweet-ass time answering, as if he were deciding whether or not to give away how big of a nerd he really was. (Spoiler: Huge. HUGE.) "Annie Get Your Gun. Released 1950. ...maybe '51, starring Betty Hutton and Howard Keel."

"...well fuck me sideways." I held up a finger, stalling him as he opened his mouth to say something smart. How do I know it was going to be something smart? ...Seriously? "Not an invitation." _Yet._ You could have knocked me over with a feather right about then and not even my vaunted ability to brick wall could keep _that_ smile off my stupid face. "And you were right, it was released in 1950-not 51-by MGM, though it was originally a Broadway show by Dorothy and Herbert Fields and Irving Berlin in 1946." (_Did I say dictionary? I meant Wikipedia. -Dean)_

"I did not know that."

I didn't even realize I was waiting for an eye roll or a long-suffering sigh or whatever until I didn't get one. After all, that was how the majority of people reacted to some dumbass random fact or other that fell out of my mouth, which is when I realized that for every snarky, smartass, bad-tempered comment out of Dean Winchester's mouth...he had never once done that. Not _once._

"I like musicals." Now watch how great I am with casual conversation when the gears in my brain have suddenly decided to seize up and thought production comes to a total standstill. "And westerns." So good. Much words. "And musical westerns."

God I am _such _a dumbass sometimes and how in the holy hell did I end up snagging Mr. Genius Underwear Model with lines like 'I like musical westerns.' (_Sex. Lots of sex. -Dean)_

"You like westerns?" Dammit, did he have to look all amused and charming and shit right then? Really just emphasized my own awkwardness by about a thousand.

"Yeah, I-" Neither of us were the kind to be snuck up on very easily and we both jumped at the sound of a throat clearing behind us, spinning around like we'd just been caught with our hands in a couple of well-stocked cookie jars. _Oh, thank God. Saved by the butler._ "Al-" Not Alfred. "Charles." Hey, at least I caught myself, right? And that was totally Dean's fault for calling him Alfred all day. "I'm sorry, we didn't see you there."

Hands clasped behind his back, Charles smiled, not looking the least bit bothered. "Nothing to apologize for, Miss Skyler, it's quite alright."

Before I could speak up to protest the use of 'Miss Skyler', Dean did it for me. "It's just Skye."

"Of course. I promise I'll try and remember this time. And you're Dean, correct?" At Dean's affirmative nod, Charles' smile widened and he stepped aside, lifting a hand and giving a little half-bow that frankly would have looked ridiculous if anyone else had done it. "Skye. Dean. Right this way, please."

Don't have to ask me twice. Glancing at Dean, I briefly met his gaze before falling into step beside him as we headed toward the dining room. "Thank you, Charles."

"...if it helps, you can call me Alfred."


	11. Dinner Bells

I'd love to be able to tell you all about the dining room, give you some glowing description or other, but honestly I just don't remember that much. I'm sure it was every bit as gorgeous as the ballroom, but I guess the details were drowned out by the company and conversation. Mostly I just remember a very large room, lots of empty tables, and Dean. Go figure, huh?

I _do_ remember following Charles in—Dean just a few steps behind me—and fully expecting him to seat us at one of the many tables scattered around the cavernous space. Honestly, that probably would have been pretty uncomfortable considering how empty it felt, with even my steps echoing back at us. Thankfully, Charles did nothing of the sort, instead leading us to a table nestled in its own little alcove at the back of the room.

"Is this acceptable?" Smiling, Charles gestured to the U-shaped booth that curved around one side of the small table, a more intimate setting than I'd anticipated. ...not that I was complaining and Dean looked downright _thrilled_. Of course, that could have been because we were about to get a meal that consisted of actual food, but somehow I doubt it. "When The Arcadia was built, this was the owner's private booth. I thought it might be suitable."

"This is more than suitable, Charles. Thank you." 'Suitable', hell, it was fantastic. I may not remember all the little details, but I certainly remember that much. "Though I do feel a little underdressed."

"You look fine." Sliding into the booth, Dean didn't look the least bit phased as he leaned back and raised a brow in my direction, his gaze lingering in places it probably shouldn't have. Like I'm not going to _notice_? "You just gonna stand there?"

"Maybe." Turning around and going right back up to the room did cross my mind. It's not that I didn't _want_ to sit and have a nice dinner with Dean, I just _really_ wasn't looking forward to the conversation I knew was coming. Luckily for me, the voice that was screaming 'Romantic Dinner' was way louder than my anxiety. A beer or two and I'd be just dandy. Probably.

Catching Charles' eye, I rolled my own and got a sympathetic smile in response before sliding into the booth, trying to maintain some kind of distance from Dean. You'd think after days in the car, I'd be used to close quarters with the man, but not really, no. He just takes up so much _space. _Just for some perspective here, he is over a foot taller than I am and weighs twice what I do. _Literally._ The whole damn family is fucking massive.

"Indeed. You look lovely, Miss Skyl-" Charles caught it before he could finish the last syllable, correcting himself and offering me a smile in silent apology, "-Skye."

Looking entirely too relaxed for my peace of mind, Dean swallowed a chuckle and leaned back against the booth, briefly turning his attention to Charles. "So, Alfred, what's for dinner?"

No way Dean didn't remember 'Alfred's' real name. He might be a dumbass, but he's not _dumb_, which meant he was doing it to either be irritating or because he thought he was funny. My bet was on the latter, though if you'd ask me a day earlier, I'd have gone for the former. It was kind of like, I don't know, my attitude toward Dean was shifting in general, almost as if I wasn't automatically attributing malicious intent to every single word out of his mouth. I wonder why that could _possibly be._

Still, it seemed Charles had a sense of humor, responding as if Dean had called him by name. "For dinner this evening I will be serving steak-cooked to your preference, of course-with baked potatoes, salad, and a loaf of French bread I took out of the oven not an hour ago." Drawing himself up to his full height, all five-feet-eight of it, Charles looked down at Dean. "I trust that meets with Master Wayne's approval?"

"Sounds good to me." Dean didn't so much as twitch at Charles' response, though his smile might have gotten just a tad wider. "Medium-rare." Clearing my throat, I caught Dean's attention and raised an eyebrow, giving him the same look Anthony used to give me when I was being rude. "...please."

Biting back a smile, I answered Charles' questioning look before he could open his mouth to ask, "For me as well, please."

"Excellent. And to drink we have wine, iced tea, lemonade, beer, and water." As if that wasn't enough of a selection, Charles thoughtfully added; "Or whiskey, if you'd like something a bit stronger."

Honestly, I don't think I'd ever wanted a very large whiskey so much in my life, but that _probably_ would have ended badly. I'm not really a big drinker. I'm not really a big anything. _(Not true. She's a big pain in my ass. -Dean)_ "A beer and a glass of water would be great, thank you."

"Beer for me, please." This time Dean didn't even glance in my direction, adding the 'please' all on his own. The boy can be taught! Of course, it helps when he wants to get into the teacher's pants, but still. "Thank you, Alfred."

"My pleasure, Master Wayne."

* * *

Shifting around to sit facing Dean, I crossed my arms and leaned a shoulder against the back of the booth, breaking the silence before it could get awkward. This was going to be weird enough with that, thanks. "You think you're funny, don't you?"

"I think I'm fuckin' adorable." Couldn't really dispute that because he was, in fact, fucking adorable. Picking up the butter knife, he spun it idly in his hand, not paying the least bit of attention to what he was doing. He'd started fidgeting almost as soon as Charles had walked away. Not a lot, but if I didn't know any better, I'd say I wasn't the only one that was a little anxious about all this, though he managed to hide it better than I did. Mostly. _Dammit._

Catching me eyeing the flash of silver spinning between his fingers, Dean abruptly put the knife back down, the metal clinking against some very fine china. The comfortably faded leather under him creaked when he shifted, leaning back against the booth and crossing his arms as he tried to hide behind one of those 'I-Am-Just-So-Gosh-Darn-Cute' smiles. A popular tactic, right up there with 'intimidate into cooperation'. Neither is particularly effective. (_Sure they're not. -Dean) _"So...you were a bartender?"

"Yeah, for like four years." _Way to deflect attention, Winchester. _Alright, if that's how he wanted to play this… "I worked at a bar called Taps in Bartlesville for years and then a place called Black Jack's in New Orleans for the last few weeks." Well, really I'd been working at Taps since I was old enough to hold a broom, but all that was a little complicated to explain. And not exactly legal, not that that's ever made a good goddamn to any of us. "Anthony got me a job with a friend when I moved down there."

Eyes narrowing as he looked at me, Dean couldn't keep the stupid skeptical look off his equally stupid face. It wasn't hard to figure out he thought I just might be lying. Not that I could really blame him, but still kind of a dick move. "Don't you have to be twenty-one to tend bar?"

_That_ was why he thought I was lying? _Seriously?_ "...says the felon with a glove box full of fake IDs and an arsenal in the trunk." What, did he think no one else ever did that kind of thing? Shifting in my seat, I dug my wallet out of my back pocket and flipped it open, slipping the ID I carried out of its sleeve and sliding it across the table. It was identical to my legal ID in every way, except for the date of birth. "Anthony has had a new one made for me every year since I was fourteen. I needed the money and he needed a decent worker."

Picking up the plastic, Dean examined it for a second before peering over it to arch a brow at me, his lips twitching like he couldn't quite believe I'd have a fake ID. And a good one, too, not one of those 'I-bought-this-for-sixty-bucks-off-a-guy-named-Vic-that-lives-in-his-mom's-basement' types that college kids pick up so they can hit the local liquor store. "Twenty-two? No way in hell you can pass for twenty-two." Flipping my ID back at me, Dean couldn't manage to keep quiet, his mouth running a few seconds ahead of his brain. Anyone see a trend there? "I mean, I could _maybe_ see twenty in really bad lighting or if you were in a bikini or somethin'..."

"Why you picturin' me in a bikini?" Watching his face turn bright red was (and still is) one of my very favorite pastimes. "With the right clothes and make-up, I can look anywhere from around twelve to twenty-five or so." (_She's not lying and honestly it's kind of creepy. -Dean_)

"I call bullshit." Hands clasped on the table-top in front of him, Dean seemed to have forgotten to fidget. Also possibly forgetting to breathe as he asked a question that had probably been on his mind for awhile because… I mean, do I really have to spell it out for you here? "...but just to double-check, you _are_ eighteen, right?"

"It's okay, Winchester, I'm eighteen. You don't have to feel creepy for lookin' at my ass." Okay, so _that_ was flirting. Kind of. I wasn't exactly good at it but it seemed I didn't really have to be because he was blushing again. Considering he was the one with all the experience and I had exactly none, you'd think it'd be harder to make him turn all kinds of red, but you'd be wrong. And it's _glorious_. "I turn nineteen on Christmas Eve."

"I never-" Was he _really_ about to claim he's never looked at my ass? Did I have 'stupid and oblivious' tattooed on my forehead? Probably a good thing Dean didn't get to finish his protestations —because no way I would have been able to keep my big mouth shut—due to Charles' fortuitous arrival. Saved by the butler. Again.

"Here you are." Pushing a wheeled cart, Charles stopped next to the table, ignoring the flustered look on Dean's face and my own laughter—like any good butler would—before depositing one of those fancy serving trays onto the table—the kind you really only ever see on TV—and lifted the top to reveal a large bowl of salad and a loaf of French bread, followed quickly by just about every condiment anyone could ever want, two glasses of water, and two very cold bottles of some beer I'd never heard of. "I trust you can serve yourselves?"

Clearing his throat, Dean managed to recover enough to speak, looking eager for Charles to be gone again. Though I guess it's possible I could have been misreading that. (_She wasn't. -Dean) _"I think we can manage. Thanks, Alfred."

"Of course, Master Wayne." Inclining his head respectfully in my direction, Charles couldn't quite smother his chuckle, "And Dr. Isley." Ooo, Charles had a little nerd cred. Nice. "I'll return shortly with your meal."

* * *

Relaxing back against his seat, Dean retrieved one of the bottles Charles had brought, twisting the cap off and sliding it across the table to me before grabbing the second one for himself and arching a brow at me. "Dr. Isley?"

"Come on, how do you not know Pamela Isley?" Leaning across the table, I snagged Dean's plate before he could stop me and scooped up a decent serving of salad before he could say anything. Dude needed to eat a vegetable and I wasn't above shaming him into it. "Poison Ivy? Only one of the best villains in Gotham? Teams up with Mr. Freeze in Batman and Robin?"

"Like anyone ever watched that movie." Eyeing the salad like it was made of dog food, Dean reluctantly took his plate back before picking up the bread knife, a smile twitching on his lips. "I'm pretty sure I knew that, though."

"I'm gonna pretend to believe that, but only 'cause you're armed." To be fair, he _had_ proven to be a much bigger nerd than I'd previously given him credit for, but I had my doubts about this one because it really was a terrible movie. Ignoring me as if I hadn't even spoken, Dean took it out on the bread instead, handing me a somewhat squished slice before cutting one for himself.

Wrapping my hands around the cold glass bottle, I took a long drink of my beer before sagging back in my seat, finding my appetite a bit less than expected. Really, I just kind of wanted to get this part over with, which was difficult considering I didn't even know where to _start_ and it didn't look like Dean was going to be much help if I didn't say something. I mean, I could probably have pushed it off, but I _had_ promised… "So, are we supposed to be talkin' about somethin' or other or are we just gonna do the whole 'sit in uncomfortable awkwardness' thing?"

Putting the bread knife and his own squished slice down, Dean brushed the crumbs off his hands and pushed his plate away like he hadn't been looking forward to real food all damn day. It's probably a good sign that a guy is interested if he ignores fresh baked bread to pay attention to you instead. (_She's not wrong. -Dean) _"You know, I think I've about had my fill of that last one over the last week or so."

"Okay. So." Now it was my turn to fidget. Somehow or other the napkin that had been by my plate had ended up in my lap and if it hadn't been made of cloth, it'd have been torn to itty-bitty pieces in seconds. "...I don't know, how do people talk about shit like this?"

"No idea, but I think we can figure it out."

If he could have looked a little more frazzled and a little less amused, that would have been great, but of course he wasn't, which funnily enough made it that much more difficult to keep from plucking that napkin apart thread by thread. "Remind me why I agreed to this?"

"Because we're stuck with each other for God knows how long, so we might as well be friends because neither of us wants to wake up dead?" Dude has such a way with words, doesn't he? "And because I bribed you."

"Is that what that was? A bribe?" Abandoning the napkin for a fork, I stabbed a cherry tomato and moved it to the side of my plate to get it the hell out of my salad. "I would have called it blackmail."

"You gonna eat that or you just gonna play with it?" (Translation for those that don't speak Winchester: 'You need to eat because I am concerned and care about your well-being'.) Lifting his half-empty beer to his lips, Dean's spring-green eyes laughed at me over the lip of the bottle as he threw my own words back at me. "...and I prefer extortion, it sounds classier."

"Have you always been like this or is it somethin' I did?" Rolling my eyes, I ate a small piece of bread, swallowing hard to force it past the rapidly growing lump in my throat. There were reasons I didn't tend to talk about myself beyond the purely superficial and broaching the subject was proving to be more nerve-wracking than I'd thought it would be. "You realize you're basically askin' for my life story here, right?" Abandoning any pretense of actually eating, I reached for my still mostly-full beer instead and leaned back in my seat, turning abruptly serious. "You sure you wanna hear it?"

Dean sat up a little straighter at the change in tone, setting his empty bottle down. Moving his untouched plate (hypocrite) out of his way, Dean leaned forward, hands clasped on the table as he gave me his full and undivided attention. (Which, for those of you who haven't had Dean Winchester's full and undivided attention, can be very unsettling for a variety of reasons.) All while also somehow managing to answer what amounted to four different questions with a single word. Because talent.

"Yes."


	12. Confessions of a Teenage Trauma Queen

***Trigger Warning:** While you may find some dark/morbid humor later in The Ties That Bind, I in no way take these issues lightly. My sense of humor is simply how I deal with my own issues and should not be taken personally because, come on, fanfiction is the only therapy I can afford.

The following chapters contain **Dark/Adult Themes, **including discussions of **child abuse/neglect, drug addiction, and suicide**. If you find these things disturbing, you shouldn't go any further. Seriously, this is lollipops and candy canes compared to how dark this series is going to get and this is the one and only time I will be putting a warning like this at the beginning of a specific chapter so as not to spoil upcoming events so... Don't say I didn't warn you.

If you suspect a child is being abused, please don't hesitate to call 911 or your local child protection agency to make a report. In most cases, you can remain anonymous. You could save a life.

The **National Suicide Prevention Lifeline **for the US is a 24-hour, toll-free, and confidential suicide prevention hotline available to anyone in crisis or emotional distress. **Spanish speaking counselors available.**

The National Suicide Prevention Lifeline can be reached at 1-800-273-8255.

The National Suicide Prevention Lifeline **(ESP)** can be reached at 1-888-628-9454.

The National Suicide Prevention Lifeline **(Deaf & Hard of Hearing Options)** can be reached at 1-800-799-4889.

**A 24-hour Online Chat in partnership with Contact USA is also available.**

* * *

Sitting here trying to write out my thoughts about that night and that conversation, I'm having a hard time coming up with the right words. Or any at all. I couldn't tell you the color of the tablecloth or if there even was one, but I can tell you exactly what Skyler was wearing and what her laughter sounded like and that it smelled like flowers. Honeysuckle, specifically. (_Stop sniffing me, creeper. -Tink)_

"I don't-I don't even really know where to start."

"You could start by eating your dinner." While I admit that watching Tinkerbell tear her salad apart like it owed her money was mildly entertaining, none of it was actually ending up _in _her and considering I couldn't actually remember the last time she'd eaten more than a granola bar, that was a little concerning.

Sitting across from her as she tried to vibrate out of her skin, it was kind of hard to believe this was the same girl that had been insulting my existence daily and had once threatened to start screaming for the cops if she didn't get her way.

...okay, so maybe it was more than _mildly_ entertaining. Also real fucking cute. "Or, you know, you could start at the beginning. I think that's where most folks start things."

Glancing over, Tink stuck her tongue out at me, because she's just the epitome of grace and maturity, before viciously stabbing a forkful of what had once been a salad and was now just sad. Probably imagining it was my head. "With the beginning, huh? Alright." She looked thoughtful for a second, though that could just have been the chewing, one corner of her lips twitching as she spoke, "In the beginning, God created Heaven and Earth, and the Earth was void and empty-"

"Funny." Okay, that was actually pretty good. "Smartass."

"Dude, I'm fuckin' hilarious." Flashing me a grin that set my stomach to doing flips, she visibly started to relax, though whether that was because she had resigned herself to the conversation or because she no longer thought of me as The Enemy, I have no idea. (_Little of column A, little of column B. -Tink) _"Okay. The beginning, for real this time."

She reached for her drink, swiping a few loose strands of hair out of those dark eyes as she chose her words. "I was born in Bartlesville, Oklahoma on December 24th, 1986 to nineteen-year-old Michelle Bleu. The unwanted result of a one-night stand that she _deeply_ regretted. Or so I've been told." From the way she said it, it wasn't hard to figure out that she must have heard that one a lot, and not phrased nearly as nicely. "Just imagine every Prom Queen to drug-addicted trailer-trash cliche you've ever heard and voila, you have Shelley Bleu. Am I paintin' a decent picture so far?"

"I think I got it." She does have a way of getting her point across with very few words, at least when she's got a mind to. Of course, she also has a way of being able to talk for hours without actually saying a goddamn thing. It's awesome in a really aggravating kind of way. _(I'm just talented like that. -Tink)_ "Not sure I want it, but I got it."

"Just wait, it gets better." If by 'better' you mean 'rage-inducingly bad', then sure.

Before she could get into detail, the sound of Alfred and his wheeled cart announced his arrival a few seconds before he came into view, giving her just enough warning to pause the conversation. "But first I think it's time for a commercial break. These messages brought to you by The Corporation for Public Broadcasting and viewers like you."

"Exactly how much TV did you watch growing up?"

"...all of it?"

* * *

Alfred must have gotten the memo that he'd interrupted something, or maybe he was just good at reading the room, because he didn't waste any time switching out the rabbit food for the actual food. Just from looks alone, the man knew his way around a steak. Still one of the best meals I've ever had, though the company might have had some influence on that. The conversation was a little rough, though.

Waiting until our host was well out of earshot, Tink grabbed an unopened bottle from the stash of beer Alfred had left chilling in an ice bucket, twisting the top off before sitting back in her seat. "Where was I?"

"Eat first, talk after. Or during, I don't care." Nodding toward the steak on her plate, I met her eyes and smiled as I picked up my own silverware. "Don't make me cut it up and feed it to you like a toddler, 'cause I will." _(It's true, he totally would. -Tink)_

"Tell me, Winchester-" Picking up her own knife, she contemplated the meal in front of her before slicing off a piece of meat and spearing it on the end of her fork, eyeing it thoughtfully before popping it into her mouth. And of course I was left to wait for her to chew and swallow before she finished her thought, because 'manners'. "Does the whole 'bullying asshole' thing usually work out for you or is it just purely for your own puerile amusement."

"I think the answer is yes, but I'm not totally sure." Not only had she seen all the TV, but apparently she'd read all the books, too. The fact that I had no idea what 'puerile' meant—because come on, who talks like that—must have been pretty evident from my answer and the blank look on my face. If I'd been talking to Sammy, he definitely would have made fun of me for not knowing before explaining himself, but that's because he's a dick.

"It means immature-" Instead of the mockery or scorn I would have gotten just a couple of days before, she just smiled, her tone teasing but in a friendly kind of way. Maybe more than friendly. "-and so far I stand by that assessment."

"As you should." Hey, even I'll admit that was pretty accurate. I've never claimed to be mature. Growing old might be mandatory, at least for most, but growing up is optional no matter who you are. "You stopped eating again."

"Hypocrite." Gesturing at my own plate with her fork, she stuck her tongue out at me again before taking another bite of her own meal. "You know, you don't stop with that, I'm gonna start to think you care."

"I had lunch, you didn't." Still, be a damn shame to let a good dinner go to waste. With a mouthful of steak, I didn't bother to wait until after I swallowed to talk, speaking with my mouth full like the heathen I am. "And of course I care. It'd be real hard to explain a dead teenager to the authorities after you starve to death." Yeah, that's why.

"Like you don't know how to get rid of a body."

"I'm gonna choose to take that as a compliment." Also a nice reminder that we weren't talking about me right now, though mostly because I didn't really want her thinking too hard about the fact that I slaughter things for a living. 'Serial-killer' isn't really the best vibe ever. "Do you know who your Dad is?" Okay, even for me that might have been an abrupt change of topic, coming out sharper than I meant it. "I mean-You said it was a one-night stand and I just-"

"Relax, Winchester, you're allowed to ask questions. I promise I'm not gonna get offended when you stick your foot in your mouth." Brown eyes laughing at me over the rim of her beer, Tink wrinkled her nose in my direction before taking a long drink and setting it back on the table, the glass bottle clinking against what sounded like solid wood. "Believe it or not, I'm pretty easy going when I'm not bein' treated like a 'temporary inconvenience'. And no, to answer your question, I don't know who my Dad is. All Mama ever said about him was that he was a charming older guy with dark hair and a nice car."

"I didn't mean that."

"Yes, you did." It was kind of nice not having to explain what I meant when I said I didn't mean it, but the 'you're so full of shit' look I was getting from the snarky brunette sitting across from me wasn't. "You don't really say things you don't mean, Dean." Not true, I say things I don't mean all the time—it's kind of my job—but I get what she meant.

The corners of her eyes crinkled as the wry twist to her lips turned into a full-on smile and she shrugged a shoulder. "It's aggravating as all fuck, to be honest, but I'm not complainin'. It's an admirable quality, even if you do come off as a total prick a lot of the time."

"Thanks, I think."

"You're welcome."

* * *

Pushing my half-eaten meal away, I sat back and took a second to figure out whether or not I was going to explode. Dean, of course, had polished off everything on his plate and was now eyeing my leftovers. I swear, there are times the man could eat an entire side of beef and still have room for dessert. To be fair, though, Charles had proven to be an excellent cook. "You can have it if you want it."

"Nah, I'm good. It's just a shame for it to go to waste, is all." Wadding up his napkin, Dean tossed it onto the table next to his plate and nodded toward the beer in my hand. "How many does that make for you?"

"This would be my third. Fourth? And don't look at me like that, I know I'm a lightweight." Come on, it's not like I was drunk or anything. Okay, maybe a little buzzed, but that's it, I swear. _(A little buzzed, my ass. -Dean) _"I guess I'm out of excuses not to continue the conversation though, huh."

"You know, you don't actually have to tell me anything you don't want to."

"Stop that or I really will start to think you're a nice guy after all." I don't know if it was the alcohol or those incredible green eyes looking at me like I was the only thing in the room, but the thought of sharing a few painful memories didn't seem nearly as bad as it had just a couple hours before. "I really don't mind so much, it's just weird to talk about, but I did promise and I always keep my promises." Or try to, anyway. "But-It's just-You wanna go for a walk or somethin' while we talk? I think I could use some air."

"I don't see why not." Running a hand through his dark hair, he flashed me a grin as he started to slide out of the booth, throwing a glance over his shoulder at the dirty dishes we were leaving behind. "What do you think, should we leave a tip?"

"No, but I have every intention of pickin' up a thank you card when we go to the store. If we're still doin' that, that is." Getting to my feet, I had to stop a second as the room tilted around me. Choking back a laugh, Dean tried to turn it into a cough and failed miserably before giving up any pretense of not being amused by my less-than-sober self, his hands hovering by his sides like he wanted to reach out to steady me but didn't dare. Poor guy was torn between wanting to help and respecting my boundaries, which is really sweet, if you stop to think about it. And I did.

"Depends." Shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans, Dean took half a step back as the room steadied and I straightened up, gesturing for me to precede him across the room. "You still gonna cook for me?"

"Depends. You still gonna tell me about you?" From the sour expression that crossed his face, he'd forgotten about that part of the deal, or at least tried to. Like I was really going to spill my guts without some kind of guarantee he'd do the same. Pfft. "If so, then yeah, I'll keep my side of the bargain."

"I keep my promises, too, Tinkerbell."


	13. They That Walk in Darkness

Dean held the door open for me as I stepped outside, the cool night air washing over my alcohol-heated skin. (Okay, so I'd had maybe one or two more beers than I'd really intended to, but whatever.) Judging by the star-strewn sky overhead and the distant sounds of the encroaching city a few blocks away, it was later than I'd thought. We must have been at dinner for a good three hours, though it hadn't felt nearly that long.

Dean let the door to the lobby fall closed behind him, ensuring it shut completely before joining me on the sidewalk. With narrowed eyes and a smile hovering around his lips, he gave me a long once-over, as if I might start stumbling all over the sidewalk any minute now. "You alright?"

"Yeah, I'm good." Hands tucked snug into the pockets of my jeans, I wrinkled my nose at him. I wasn't _that_ drunk. Pretty sure I wasn't even slurring. Okay, maybe a little, but not much, and it can be hard to tell with my accent anyway. "Just tryin' to figure how to go about this whole conversation." Nodding my head toward the far end of the block that lead to the parking lot, I fell into step beside him, taking a second to figure out where to start. "I guess I'm really tryin' to figure out what my first solid memory is. There's a whole handful that are pretty vivid but they're all clumped together and I can't untangle which one happened when. Does that make sense?"

"Does to me." Hands tucked into his own pockets, Dean shortened his stride considerably, neither of us in any kind of hurry as we ambled slowly down the sidewalk. "Gonna take a shot in the dark and say those memories probably aren't sunshine and rainbows."

"I do so love when you're wrong." What can I say, I really do. Or did. 'Cause I'm petty. It didn't take long for my grin to turn into more of a grimace, though, because he was mostly right. "Well, a little wrong. I started dancing when I was four and that's one of the best memories I've got." And let me tell you, all those of years of practice have come in way handier than I could possibly have imagined at the time. "But the rest ain't so great, so I guess you may have a point. And isn't that just annoying as all hell."

Even if I hadn't said it aloud, that annoyance was probably fairly evident in my tone—and in the fact that I flipped him off—and that little half-smile tugging at the corners of his lips spreading into a smug, shit-eating grin didn't help any. (_I am not __**smug**__. -Dean) _ "Is it?"

"You know what else is annoying? The whole 'man of few words' thing you think you've got goin' on." The cracked cement grinding under my boots, I pivoted slowly to look up at him, rocking back on my heels as I gave him the same long once-over he'd given me a few minutes before. "Gotta admit, the whole tall, dark, and brooding thing kinda works for you." And before you ask, yes, that was alcohol-induced flirting. Sort of. Maybe. (_Except for the 'alcohol-induced' part. -Dean)_

"...exactly how drunk are you, Tinkerbell?"

"Drunk enough to answer to Tinkerbell." A fair question, all things considered, and probably rhetorical but I just couldn't resist attempting to wipe that smug smirk off his pretty face. Arms crossed, I thought about it for a second, doing a little mental math before answering, "Ninety-eight pounds. Three beers, maybe four, and...what time is it?"

"Uh-" Pulling a hand out of his pocket, he glanced at the ugly black plastic on his wrist, checking the time and looking a little surprised at the answer. "A little after ten."

"-over three hours is a blood alcohol level of about point one-four to maybe point two." Why do I know how to calculate that? Because I'm the size of your average fourteen-year-old girl and I don't fancy alcohol poisoning but I do like to drink on occasion, that's why. Two decent shots and I have to switch to water. At least I'm a cheap date. "I have a decent tolerance level for someone my size, but throwing up later is a possibility."

"Good to know." Hands firmly back in his pockets, Dean fell quiet for a minute, only the occasional scuff of a footstep and the distant sounds of a college town interrupting the silence. Looking pensive, he cleared his throat, not looking at me as he spoke. "So, you really are '174, full-ride Harvard' kinda smart, huh."

"It was my safety school." I actually did get a full-ride scholarship—just not to Harvard—but let's not get into _that_ right now because it won't be relevant to anything until later. "I'm not really all that smart, I've just got a really good memory." They call it a photographic memory on TV and in movies and whatever. Think Spencer Reid from Criminal Minds. (_More like Shawn Spencer with boobs. -Dean) _That's not really how it works, of course, but it's close enough without going into a long and complicated explanation. Trust me, you'll understand later but—like my scholarship—it isn't relevant yet. "It helps that I'm really fuckin' cute, though, in a 'no one ever suspects the butterfly' kinda way."

We'd long since rounded the corner of the hotel, somehow coming to a stop at the edge of the parking lot tucked against the side of the massive building, though I don't think either of us had really been paying any attention to our surroundings until Dean's laughter started echoing back at us. "And so modest."

Slowly lifting both hands, I made an obscene gesture that was at direct odds with the smile on my face and the teasing tone of my voice. "I know my strengths and I know my weaknesses, Winchester. Trust me, the latter far outweigh the former."

—Come on, it's not like I'm blind or stupid. I've had men looking at me sideways since before I hit puberty. I'll never win Miss America, but I am goddamn adorable. Hell, stick a cheerleading uniform on me and give me a video camera and I could make some decent money. (_How about no. -Dean) _

People like the whole 'cute and innocent' thing, a fact I've been taking advantage of for years now. That being said, it can get fucking creepy. Ever been hit on by a forty-year-old middle-management type after being told you look _just _like his fifteen-year-old daughter? I have. So. Much. _Ew_.—

Hovering on the edge of the sidewalk just a few yards from where the Impala was parked, Dean's eyes narrowed as he eyed me critically. Or maybe it was concern? The two can look remarkably similar on certain people. "You know, somethin' tells me you're not the most objective judge there, Tinkerbell."

"You're probably right, though I bet the same can be said for you, too, Peter Pan." Skirting around him, I made my way over to the car, turning around to hop up and sit on the trunk before looking over at him again. "Or are you Captain Hook?"

"Probably." Because that's an answer. With a wave, Dean motioned for me to scoot over so he could join me, hopping up to sit just far enough away that he wasn't in danger of crowding me. Bootheels propped on the bumper and elbows on his knees, he smirked over at me. The corners of those gorgeous eyes crinkling at me, though at least he was nice enough not to laugh aloud. "You're stalling."

"Probably." (_Definitely. -Dean)_ "I _think_ my first solid memory is-I would have been around two or three, maybe? Not that it makes any difference, I guess." The anxiety I'd tried to drink away earlier was trying to claw its way back in, trying to flood my brain with useless information so I wouldn't think about what it didn't want me to think about. Nope, not today, thanks. Go fuck yourself. Not in the mood. "I remember it was cold out and there was snow on the ground. Not much, but enough to slip down the sides of the stupid too-small pink sandals I was wearing and freeze my toes."

"We were just leaving the house-well, it was a trailer, but same difference-and I was walkin' through the yard to get to the road and I look over and there's this little grey mouse sittin' there on the snow." Shifting to pull my legs up, I sat cross-legged with my elbows on my knees, trying to find something to look at that wasn't Dean. "Poor thing must have been starved and half-frozen. It was the cutest thing, though, just sittin' there starin' up at me like it was askin' for help." Have I mentioned that having a photographic memory sucks balls? Because it does the vast majority of the time. Thankfully I've managed to block a lot of stuff out, but certainly not everything.

"I remember picking it up, how small and fragile it was, so cold it couldn't even shiver-" A shiver rippled up my own spine as I tried to focus on the here-and-now and not a fifteen-year-old memory. Not always the easiest thing ever but I'd gotten pretty good at it by then. "I didn't hear Mama come up behind me, but there she was when I looked up. I shouldn't have tried to hide it. I should have just let it go, maybe it could have run off and-" Clearing my throat, I looked up and met Dean's eyes, flashing him a wry smile as I shook it off. "Not so fun fact, did you know mice can scream?"

"I did not know that, no." From his complete lack of expression and the muscle twitching in his jaw, Dean at least had a vague idea where this was going and didn't like it the least little bit. Can't say as I blame him, I didn't like it much either. "She killed it?"

"Right track, wrong train." With a tight smile, I sat back, taking a little morbid amusement in his bewildered expression. (And the horrified comprehension that slowly dawned on his face when I clarified was just utterly priceless.) Hey, what can I say, every good protagonist needs a tragic backstory, right? "She made _me_ do it."

"She-" It didn't take long at all for horrified comprehension to shift right over into tightly-controlled rage. It was a good thing I realized that it was _for_ me—not _at_ me—otherwise Dean would have been just a little terrifying. Dude _growls_ when he's angry. (And honestly, it's kind of hot.) If he was mad about _this_, he was going to be absolutely livid later. "And where is your mother now_?"_

"Memorial Park Cemetery, last I checked." And just like that, his anger cooled and if anything I'd say he looked aggravated. Knowing him like I do now, I think I can safely say that he was intensely disappointed that my mother was already dead and he wouldn't get to snap her neck like he so clearly wanted to.

Does it make me a bad person if I find that funny? I can't help it. My psychologist says I use humor as a coping mechanism and that it's a perfectly healthy response to trauma. Mostly. Everyone else just says I need a lot more therapy. (_Why not both? -Dean) _"Buckle up, Buttercup, it gets worse."

* * *

"What?" Laying against the back window of the Impala, Tink raised a brow at me before pushing herself up on her elbows, blinking suspiciously at me like I'd just tried to pick her pocket. Not that I didn't want to, figuratively speaking anyway. She's pretty cute when she's drunk. "Why are you lookin' at me like that?"

"I'm not lookin' at you like anything." Yeah. Right. I totally wasn't looking at her like she was the single most interesting thing I'd ever seen and every word out of her mouth just made her even more so. How many people could go through the shit she had and keep it together enough to function, let alone keep smiling? "Just-You're sittin' there telling me all this, talkin' about it like it's nothin'."

"You deal with shit every day, eventually you get used to livin' in the sewer." And she has such a way with words. Disgusting, maybe, but she does paint a picture. Shrugging a shoulder at me, she rested her chin on her knee, watching me from under those long, dark lashes of hers. "Besides, you're one to talk. Didn't you just recently shoot at a dead woman that was trying to brutally murder your brother? Because that's '_normal'_."

"Fair enough." I couldn't really argue that. My life hadn't been any kind of normal for a long time. You'd be surprised what a person can get used to, though. After a while, you kind of lose sight of what 'normal' even is.

Craning her head around, Tink looked back at the driver's side window I'd shot out when I'd fired at that bitch Constance—now rolled up and obviously in one piece—before turning back to me with the most confused look on her face. "...that was busted. I _know_ that was busted."

"It was. Now it's not." Turning a chuckle into a cough, I smiled, not wanting her to think I was laughing at her. I'd stuck my foot in my mouth enough the last few days, I didn't have any real desire to do it again any time real soon. "I fixed it while you were sleeping."

Sitting up a little straight, she glanced back at the window again before peering back around at me. Got to say, the look of surprise on her face was a little insulting. "_You_ fixed it?"

"Like I'm gonna let anybody else touch my car." She might have known me for less than two weeks, but she should have at least figured _that_ out. (_Fair enough. -Tink) _"Dad was a mechanic back before everything. I learned how to hold a wrench before I could walk."

"You mean before your Mom died." Her smile dimmed, those bright eyes shadowed as she studied me with what I probably would have taken as pity from anyone else. I'm not a big fan of pity. With her, though, there was no chance I could mistake it as anything but empathy. Hell, she's probably the single most empathetic person I've ever met. It's not a trait I envy. (_Funny, I've said the same about him on more than one occasion. -Tink) "_I'm sorry that happened."

I'd heard a lot of 'I'm sorry for your loss' and 'my condolences' and all that bullshit, and not a single person has ever sounded half as sincere as 'I'm sorry that happened'. I opened my mouth to give the usual 'it's okay' or 'it was a long time ago' but that isn't what came out. One of those times when my mouth knew better than my brain, maybe. "Yeah, me too."

The corner of her lips lifting in a little half-smile, she reached out and laid her hand on my arm. It didn't last long, a few seconds at most, but it was more than long enough to turn my brain into radio static. I think she must have taken that for me being uncomfortable or something because she quickly shifted the topic to safer ground. At least, it was at the time. "John was a Marine, wasn't he?"

Nodding an affirmative, I tried to figure out when in the hell I had mentioned that and couldn't think of anything. Sure, I'd told a few stories, but nothing that would have come up in. "When did I tell you he was in the Marines?"

"Back in Jericho, when you were talkin' to Sam on the phone after bustin' out of jail. You said somethin' about 'the same old ex-Marine crap', which honestly explains _so_ much."

"Does it?" I certainly remembered the busting out of jail part, and talking to Sam, but I wouldn't have been able to recall the exact conversation if you put a gun to my head. And apparently that's funny, or at least she seemed to think so at the time. Sliding back, I leaned against the glass, my hands clasped on my stomach as I studied the unassuming little thing sitting on the other side of the trunk. "You don't miss much, do you?"

"I'd like to think that's true." Mimicking my posture, she leaned back, lacing her hands together and crossing her ankles as she smiled over at me. "Somethin' tells me you don't either."

"I have my moments." Don't we all? I just kind of wish I had more of them. "Weren't we still supposed to be talkin' about you?" I wasn't looking forward to talking about me as it was, no need to get into that part sooner than we had to. "What about all those issues of yours you said you'd explain?"

"Just hold your horses, Winchester. I'm gettin' there." Resting her head against the glass, she closed her eyes and lifting a hand, gesturing vaguely in my direction. "I'm just easin' you in, is all. It's purely for your benefit."

"Is it?"

"Okay. Fine. Shut up." And she says _I'm_ rude. ('_Cause he is. -Tink) _ "Guess we'll go with the easiest phobia first." Because any phobia is 'easy'. It's all relative, I guess, but I've seen her struggle with this shit for years and none of it has ever been _easy._ And that's what makes her a total badass. Just my opinion. (_...stop it. -Tink) _"When I was little-Before I learned how to take a doorknob off from the inside-"

Well, that's a fun way to start a story. "I already don't like where this is headed."

Slowly rolling her eyes up to the night sky before they rolled right on around to me, she blew out an exasperated breath that stirred the strands of hair that had come loose from her braid. "Didn't anybody ever tell you it's rude to interrupt someone when they're talkin'?"

Oh yeah, definitely. Just not since I'd hit puberty. "Nope."

"Like I was saying-" Opening my mouth like I was going to say something else, she hesitated until she realized I was just being an ass. If looks could kill, I'd be dead a thousand times over by now. (_I think you've died enough, thanks. You already hold the record. -Tink) _ "Back before I learned how to get out, Mama would lock me in the closet when she had shit to do and didn't want to be bothered to remember I existed."

She leaned her head back, gaze going up to the stars shining faintly through the light pollution before glancing over at me and noting the look on my face. "It really wasn't so bad most of the time. I'd hide a couple of books in there with a flashlight and some snacks and just-just go off in my own head, you know?" Was she seriously trying to comfort _me _because I was getting upset about the shit that was done to _her?_ Kind of sweet, yeah, but that's also kind of seriously fucked up.

"Sometimes, though…" Her already soft voice trailed off and for a second she wasn't looking at me, the ghosts of her past popping up to haunt her. If only those ghosts were as easy a little salt and a match. "Time moves funny when it's really dark and quiet, your mind starts playin' tricks." Blinking rapidly, she shook her head as if to clear it. Wrinkling her nose at my expression, I couldn't tell if she was annoyed or amused. "Don't look at me like that, it's not like your life's been all glitter and happiness."

"I was never locked in a closet." At least, I was pretty sure I'd never been locked in a closet. Hell, for the first four years or so, my life was not only normal, it was a fucking Norman Rockwell painting in comparison. "Well, I mean, there was this one time I'd gone back to this girl's place and her boyfriend came back early-"

"You know, not sure that counts." Eyeing me like she couldn't figure out if I was serious or not, she shook her head, a hint of a smile creeping up to crinkle the corners of her eyes. She went quiet for a second before opening her mouth again and I'm pretty sure what came of it surprised her as much as it did me, "...just out of curiosity, how many girls have you been with?"

"That seems like one of those questions I'd have to be incredibly stupid to answer." You'd be surprised how often I know it's a bad idea to say something and I end up saying it anyway. Or maybe you wouldn't. I'm not really known for keeping my mouth shut, even when I should really know better. (_It's just part of his dubious charm. -Tink) _"I don't know. Too many." And yeah, I could have lied, but even I'm not that stupid. I might have still been in some kind of denial or I don't even know, but the writing was on the wall long before I chose to read it and thankfully at least a small part of my brain seemed to realize that fact. "That bother you?"

Sitting up, she pulled her knees back up to her chest, wrapping her arms around her legs as a cold breeze sprang up out of nowhere to play with the ends of her hair and raise goosebumps on her pale skin. Have I ever mentioned that she practically glows in the dark? Oh, and also that she has the uncanny ability to ask simple questions that on the surface seem totally innocent but are actually incredibly loaded? Because she does and she does. (_No idea what he's talking about and I do __**not**_ _glow in the dark. -Tink) _"Should it?"

"No." I'm not sure if I could see the writing on the wall back then—even if I wasn't up to reading it yet—or if it was just the only answer my malfunctioning brain could come up with, but it's true. Not before or since has there ever been anyone that Tink's ever had to worry about in that regard. (_Doesn't he just say the sweetest things. -Tink) _And on that note, definitely time to get the conversation back on track before I ended up answering questions I did not want to end up answering just then. "Weren't we talking about something else?"

"Were we?" The fact that she used the same 'man of few words' tone I'd been using all evening wasn't lost on me and by her grin, I knew she could tell I'd caught that subtle bit of attitude. "So, I guess next up is the water thing." I could see a shiver ripple up her spine. Seriously, girl has like no insulation. "If you thought the mouse was fucked up, this one definitely won't change your mind."

"Your lips are turning a little blue there, Tinkerbell." Reluctant as I was to suggest pausing the conversation again, I couldn't have her freezing to death on the trunk of my car. I started to suggest we go back up to the room until a better—and closer—option sprang to mind. "You wanna sit in the car instead of on it?"

"I'm a little Bleu everywhere, Winchester." Cute. Real cute. Sliding to the edge of the trunk, she swung her legs over and glanced at the car before her head swiveled around to look at me. "The heater works, right?"

"Yeah, the heater works." Hopping off the trunk, I dug the car keys out of a pocket and held them up, grinning as she broke out in goosebumps again and started shivering in earnest. "Come on, before you turn into a pixie-sicle."

"Oh my god, stop tryin' to make the whole fairy thing happen. It's not going to happen."

"Wanna bet?"


	14. Sitting in Cars with Boys

An arm draped over the back of the dark leather seat, Dean sat with his back against the driver's side door. A faint smile played around the edges of those too-perfect dime-store romance novel lips as he watched me thaw my hands over the vent in the dash. "Better?"

"Much, thank you." Wiggling my fingers in his direction to show they were once again fully functional, I scooted a little closer to the dash, staying as close to the heat as I could until the rest of me stopped with the cold tingles.

—I just have to break in here to say it is seriously beyond not fair that I get cold in the frozen food section at Walmart, but the boys can go out in a t-shirt and jeans in thirty degree weather and be _just fucking fine_. Hell, Dean runs so hot sometimes it's like cuddling with a human bonfire. Not that I'm complaining. (_Pretty sure it's one of her favorite things about me.-Dean)—_

Laying my head on my arms, I went quiet and let the white noise of the heater drown out the static in my brain. Or it would have, if it weren't for the faintest click and rattle coming from the vent in the middle of the dash, like a tiny animal scratching at the plastic. "What _is_ that?"

Dean listened for a second, head cocked to the side, but either he really couldn't hear it or he was so used to it he'd long since tuned it out. "What's what?"

Reluctantly raising my head up as everything swam lazily around me, I leaned over enough to tap the offending vent, kind of hoping it'd make the sound stop. Luckily I learned to tune it out eventually, too, or I'd probably have gone stark-raving mad. (_Like she's not already. -Dean)_ "It sounds like there's somethin' loose in there."

"Oh. That. It's Legos." His green eyes brightened and he smiled slightly, crossing his arms as he raised a brow at me, looking mildly surprised. "You can hear that?"

"Barely." Not sure why he was surprised, it's not like I hadn't straight out told him I had great hearing. And vision. Hell, I'd rubbed the former in his face not so long ago. ...still funny. "Why are there Legos?"

"I uh-I may or may not have shoved a few in there when I was a kid." The faint smile that had been hovering on his lips spread into a sheepish grin as he leaned forward to pop open the ashtray long enough to reveal a little green army man stuck in there, staring vacantly up at nothing. "Sammy did this one."

"And you just never fixed it?" Shifting around, I sat with my back against the passenger door, arms crossed in what was probably an unconscious mimicry of Dean's position. Supposedly if you like someone, you tend to mirror their posture. Or something, I don't know, I'm not a psychologist. Thank God. "How very sentimental of you."

"Never got around to it." Yeah. Right. He fixed the window after a day but hadn't gotten a pair of pliers out and removed a couple toys in how many years? _Please. _It was fun to watch the color creep up his neck, though. It always is. Clearing his throat, he changed the topic (because God forbid a man show a little honest sentiment). "You still doin' alright over there?"

"Yeah, I'm fine." He might have been trying to deflect attention from himself—something he's very good at, when it suits him—but there was genuine concern there. Though whether that was really for me or just because he wanted to see how I looked in handcuffs and nothing else, I wasn't sure. (_Both. -Dean) _

Stretching, I leaned my head back against the window, kicking my boots off before pulling my legs up to sit cross-legged, as comfortable as if I were sitting on an overstuffed couch somewhere discussing the weather. ...okay, maybe not, but for the sake of my pride, we're going to pretend. "It's not the first time I've been to Confession, though I doubt you'll be granting me any absolution."

"Nice socks." Too busy smirking at my socks (which were adorable, thank you very much. Blue with little smiley-faced pink cupcakes dancing around), it took Dean a second to process exactly what I'd just said. To give credit where credit is due, he put two and two together pretty fast, but didn't really seem to like what it added up to. "Wait, go back. You're _Catholic_?"

I do not have the words to describe how horrified he looked at the thought and I was tempted to let him suffer. If he hadn't figured out by now that I wasn't terribly devout, then it really would have served him right, but we were trying to make friendly and all so…

"Relax, Winchester, I'm only Catholic by default." Brushing a few stray strands of hair out of my eyes, I couldn't help a chuckle at his expense. (_Not the first and definitely not the last. -Dean) _"Grandma's Catholic," I grinned answering the questioning look he threw me before he could voice it. "The only thing she ever asked of me was that I go to Mass once a month-or thereabouts-and to go to Confession if I ever do anything particularly bad."

"And you actually _go_?"

"I told you, I keep my promises." And if I don't, then there's a _really_ good reason why. "It's a pretty easy promise to keep, for the most part. I go sit in a church for a couple hours once a month or so and admire the stained glass."

"Sounds like so much fun." If his tone of voice was anything to go by, Dean apparently thought his idea of fun and my idea of fun were vastly different. (_Turns out, they're really not. -Dean) _ "You ever do anything particularly bad?"

"I ran off with you." Pulling my legs up to my chest, I wrapped my arms around my knees, ignoring the looks Dean was giving my socks. Chin on my knee, I studied him critically for a long moment, taking in every little thing about him that made him undeniably the most attractive thing I've ever seen. (_Pretty sure that's called leering. -Dean) _ "Father Connelly would _not_ approve." Father Connelly being the priest at Grandma's church for the last several decades. I swear dude was older than Methuselah then, and last I checked, he's still alive. Not a bad old guy, just had some old-fashioned ways of thinking that left a lot to be desired. "I take it you're not real into the whole religion thing, even after everything you've seen?"

"I don't believe in fairy tales." I think maybe he realized how offensive that might sound to someone that did believe because he looked like he wanted to take it back as soon as he'd said it, wincing as he tried to explain, "I just-I believe in what I can see. What I can touch."

Taking into consideration the fact that we'd basically been at each other's throats for the last several days, I guess I couldn't blame him for trying (and failing) not to put his foot in his mouth. I really am incredibly difficult to offend unless you're actively trying, but I don't think he had quite figured that out yet. It was kind of cute.

I, however, had no such misgivings about possibly offending _him_, though whether that was because I was already getting used to the way he was and knew he'd take it for the teasing I intended or because alcohol is anyone's guess. "You mean you believe in what you can kill."

Half-nodding in an 'okay, that's fair' kind of way, Dean's smile widened as he once again shifted the conversation back to where it was supposed to be. "We're not talkin' about me."

"_Yet_." To no one's surprise, he did not look thrilled to be reminded that he was going to have to spill his guts pretty soon. (_Like my 'tragic backstory' comes anywhere close to hers. -Dean) _"Alright, fine. Where was I..." Holding up a hand, I cut him off as he went to open his mouth. "Rhetorical question, I know where I was." Probably a little rude, but I think I can be excused just this once.

"Okay, so, after the mouse incident-" Catching the slight lift of a brow at my choice of words, I made an obscene gesture. Okay, so maybe I'm just rude in general and it's not a one-time thing… Bite me. "Shut up. After the mouse _incident_-and the closet thing-I guess that brings us down the list to aquaphobia-"

"The fact that you have to make a list-"

"If you don't be quiet, I'm never going to finish."

"I'm so sorry. I should be flogged."

"Yeah, probably." With a saccharin-sweet smile, I wrinkled my nose at him before leaning my head back against the window glass and closing my eyes. "Okay. So. Like I was _saying-"_ Cracking a single eyelid, I eyed him just long enough to make sure he wasn't going to interrupt again before reluctantly continuing. Even after all this time and everything we've been through, it's still not the best memory ever and I don't really like to think about it if I can avoid it. But he was cute and kind of sweet and I was drunk, all of which helped tremendously. Especially the drunk part.

"I think-no, I _know_-that it was either right before or right after my fourth birthday." I kept my eyes closed, not really wanting to see the look on Dean's face as I related one of the most traumatic events of my short life. I guess maybe I was afraid he wouldn't believe me and I don't think I would have handled that well. "Me and Mama had just left the house and we were goin'-I don't even know where we were goin', come to think of it. Not that it matters."

"You had to-See, there was a pond you had to cross to get to the highway-" Briefly opening my eyes, I flashed a tight smile. Well, probably more of a grimace, but I tried. "Not a big one, maybe fifteen feet deep at its deepest. It seemed huge to me, like an ocean, but then I've always been on the small side so my perception may be skewed."

Eyes tightly closed again, I focused on the feel of the cold glass behind my head and the subtle sounds of creaking leather as Dean shifted in his seat. His voice drifted out of the darkness, subdued, like he didn't really want me to go on but couldn't not hear what I had to say. (_Natural 20 on that perception check. -Dean) _"And then what happened?"

"And then-And then I'm not really sure..." _A thick layer of muddy slush lay on the road, seeping through her shoes, forcing her to walk slowly so she wouldn't lose her footing on the slick surface. If she fell and scraped a new hole in her jeans, Mama would be __**furious**_**. "**Something happened and I don't-"

"She just stopped, right where she was standing, right where the road sloped down to the water-" _She'd been too engrossed with watching her step, not looking up until everything around her went still. _"-then everything went dark, just for a second. Like when a stormcloud blocks out the sun." _She should have been paying attention. She should have realized something was wrong. She didn't even scream…_

"The next thing I know, she's got me and we're haulin' ass down the embankment to the water." Prying my eyes open, I blinked away the images locked behind my eyelids and focused on Dean's face, managing a wry smile as I saw only concern and that same half-smothered rage instead of the disbelief I'd feared. "I don't actually remember much after that, just wakin' up in the hospital a couple of days later."

That muscle in his jaw twitching like it was setting a beat for a new dubstep track, Dean took a breath before he spoke. _(Dean counted to ten before he spoke otherwise Dean would have just ended up screaming incoherent curses at a dead woman.-Dean) _"She tried to drown you?"

"No, she _did_ drown me. I was clinically dead for twelve minutes." I mean, obviously it didn't stick or I wouldn't be telling you this story, but I just want to be clear on that part. I don't want anyone out there thinking that a lifelong fear of water is some kind of overreaction. I legit drowned, just not for very long. "Guess it's lucky for me that the general rule is 'they're not dead til they're warm and dead' because they managed to resuscitate me." I waver on whether or not that's actually a good thing. On good days, I'm pretty happy with how things ultimately turned out. On bad days, though... "There was a story in the local paper and everything, if you care to look it up."

"You know, I think I'm good." 'Good' is not the word I'd've used. If anything, he looked almost as pale as I do, though I suppose that could have been a trick of the light. Street Lamps aren't the most flattering. (_It wasn't the lighting. -Dean) _"You actually _died_?"

"I did. Twice, actually. That was just the first time." As it turns out, that was actually the _second _time I'd died (technically speaking), I just wasn't aware of it at the time. We have since stopped keeping track, though without a doubt Dean holds the record on that one. (_Do I get a trophy? -Dean) "_The second was about three years ago…" Yeah, definitely not the lighting, not unless it also made him look like he was about to throw up, which I doubt. "You okay, Winchester?"

Running a hand through his hair, Dean forced a smile that I could tell he didn't feel. At least he tried. "It kinda feels like I should be asking you that."

"It kinda feels like you just did." My own smile was considerably less forced and I was surprised to find that Dean is really pretty easy to talk to. When he's not being a dick. He actually listens instead of just waiting for his turn to talk, which isn't as common as it should be. "...and thank you for that."

"You don't ever have to thank me for anything, Tinkerbell."


	15. Suicidal Tendencies

Hands clasped over her head, Tink stretched, flashing a quick glimpse of pale stomach that she probably wasn't aware of. I was, but I doubt that's a surprise at this point. I was also very aware of how close her feet—and those ridiculous socks—were to my leg. Every time she wiggled her toes, she brushed against me, which I also don't think she was aware of. Best compliment I've ever gotten. (_Nope, he's not sentimental at __**all**__. -Tink)_

"Is it your turn yet? I can't remember the last time I talked about myself this much. Literally." Tilting her head against the back of the seat, she looked at me and smiled, her lids heavier than they probably should have been. She was going to need some coffee soon or she'd end up asleep before I'd fulfilled my part of the bargain. "I was heavily medicated at the time and it really fucks with your head."

"Not unless you lived under a rock for the last fifteen years." I took a second to try and figure out if she was kidding about the heavily medicated thing but gave up pretty quick. It was impossible to tell, not that it mattered much beyond the fact that I was more disturbed by the thought of her drugged or in the hospital than I really should have been at that point. (_Spoiler: I was serious. -Tink)_ "How long were you in the hospital after your failed baptism?"

"A few days, I think? That was the first time I went to stay with Grandma." She shrugged a shoulder and blinked up at me, looking like she was trying to figure out exactly how many days before deciding it wasn't important enough to bother. (_He knows me so well. -Tink)_ "I was with her for about three months, give or take, then the courts said Mama could have me back."

"I'm thinkin' that wasn't the best call on their part." Because that's not the understatement of the fucking century. Clearing my throat, I had to sit back and cross my arms to keep from just laying a hand on her ankle or something. Not the first time I'd had to resist the urge to reach for her and certainly wouldn't be the last. And do you _know_ how frustrating that is? (_My guess would be about as frustrating as wanting to be touched while also really not. -Tink) _

"I'm thinkin' you just might be right." To go by the smile on her face, you'd think we were talking about things that had happened in an episode of some crappy police procedural involving douchebags that wear sunglasses indoors and not her life. "There wasn't a lot after that. Mama got married when I was nine, but that didn't last too long. By the time I was twelve, he was gone. Took off with my science teacher. Last I heard, they were headed to Florida." Her smile turned into a grin and she giggled. (_I do __**not **__giggle. -Tink) _"Too bad, too. Mr. Weston was a great teacher."

"_Mr? _Didn't expect that." Not that there's anything wrong with that. (_No comment, but that reminds me, Cas says it's your turn to clean the bathroom. -Tink)_ "I take it your step-Dad was nothing to write home about."

"I'll put it this way, if my mother was a raging dumpster fire of a human being, Benedict is like the round metal bins the homeless use for warmth. Still a trash fire, just a much smaller bin."

—I'd just like to say that I have since met Benedict and I think this is a pretty generous comparison on Tink's part, but she's a lot more forgiving than I am. (_I can't really dispute that. The man can hold a grudge. -Tink)_—

"You should write a children's book."

I was only half kidding—I think she's got a great way with the whole imagery thing—but she seemed to think the idea was pretty damn funny. Between peels of laughter that filled the car, she managed to squeeze out a few words, eventually stringing together an entire sentence, "I'm firmly against traumatizing children, but thanks."

"Any time." I could feel myself grinning like an idiot and not a damn thing I could do about it. She was just so fucking _cute_ when she laughed, I'd quite happily spend the rest of my life trying to make her do it as often as possible. (_Wasn't that in your marriage vows somewhere? -Tink)_ "So what about after Benedict? I can't imagine your mom took that well."

"She took it-I don't know, she just took it. I don't think she really cared, honestly, but I don't think she ever cared about anyone or anything that wasn't her, you know? After that, the status stayed pretty quo for awhile." Shifting in her seat, she pulled her legs in to sit cross-legged, much to my disappointment because it meant she stopped accidentally touching me. Yeah, I know, it wasn't much, but I was more than happy to take what I could get in the early days. Her smile faded as she continued, which was a damn shame. It always is. "...then Mama died."

"Please tell me you danced on her grave."

"Not quite, but I appreciate the sentiment." A wry smile tugging up one corner of her lips, she closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the glass. Probably to avoid looking at me. Knowing her as well as I do now, there isn't a doubt in my mind that what she was about to tell me was the single most nerve-wracking thing she'd talked about all day. And that's saying something. (_He's not wrong. -Tink) _ "The day after she died, I uh-I wound up back in the hospital." Wrapping her arms around herself, she didn't so much as twitch an eyelid and there was no trace of the laughter from a few minutes before. "Still no idea how I got there and that is one mystery I would love to solve."

I was as confused as she sounded right then. For the life of me, I could not connect the dots between 'mom died' and 'I was hospitalized'. Or maybe I just didn't want to. "You lost me, Tinkerbell."

_That_ made her crack a lid and she narrowed her eyes at me. I could see the gears grinding in her brain as she decided whether or not to kick up a fuss about the nickname that was rapidly becoming my favorite thing ever. I'm not sure if she decided it wasn't worth it or she knew how bad I was about to feel because she just smiled sweetly, letting it slide. "It turns out, the authorities really don't like it when you try to remove yourself from the gene pool." Closing her eyes again, she leaned her head back, that sweet smile turning just a little bitter. Not my favorite expression, but one I've since seen more than a few times since. "I haven't figured out yet if I'm just stubborn as fuck or if God's really pissed at me for somethin' and wants me to suffer, though, 'cause somehow I'm still here."

Opening her eyes, she lifted her head to look at me and her smile turned a little more genuine as she noted the look on my face. If 'physically nauseous' qualifies as a look. The thought of her being 'removed from the gene pool', let alone at her own hand, was more than enough to make me feel a little green. (_He looked like he'd been punched. Like, literally the same look he gets when he's slugged in the stomach. Which I have seen __**way**_ _too often, thanks-Tink) "_I'm kidding, Dean. Mostly, anyway."

"That's not funny."

"Matter of opinion." With another shrug, she leaned her head back again but didn't close her eyes this time, watching me from under heavy lids and long lashes. "I was in the hospital for about a month before I was taken in as a ward of the state and transferred to a 'mental health facility'." Yes, she used air quotes and all. It was obvious she was not a big fan and knowing what I know now, I can't say as I blame her. "I was there for another hundred and forty-seven days before being released to go live with Grandma, but a lot of that is pretty fuzzy."

"The 'heavily medicated' thing."

"Indeed." I don't know if she was expecting me to judge her or look at her different or what, but it didn't take long for her to start to relax again when I did no such thing. "To make a very long story slightly less so, after I moved in with Grandma I became her caretaker. Graduated high school. Then a couple months back a spot opened up at Shady Pines in New Orleans and we packed a bag and flew down. I was supposed to get her settled and go back to Oklahoma but I ended up stayin' a little longer than planned." And good thing, too, or we never would have met. (_He knows as well as I do that there's no such thing as coincidence. -Tink)_ "Then one day after a ten-hour shift I was walkin' home to my shitty 'efficiency' apartment and stumbled over this guy gettin' his ass handed to him by this really creepy woman with Force powers and here we are."

"I was not getting my ass handed to me." Okay, you know what, she wasn't (totally) wrong. I still think I probably would have managed eventually without her interference but there is a chance she may very well have saved my ass.. (_He admits it! Finally! Someone call Guinness because this has __**got**_ _to be some kind of record. -Tink) _"You know, I got to say, it's been an interesting few days. I know it probably don't mean much comin' from me, but I'm kinda glad you're still around."

"So am I, most days. Increasingly so, actually." You know earlier when I said that her not realizing she was accidentally touching me was the best compliment I've ever gotten? I lied. (_He says that about almost every compliment I've ever given him so take that with a grain of salt. -Tink)_ "I'd say it's definitely your turn, Winchester."

"Fair enough." Straightening, I stretched before taking a quick look at my watch. Just past midnight, though it sure as shit didn't feel that late. I guess time really does fly. "How about I run up and go check on Sam, then we can go grab that food you promised to make me." With a grin, I held up a hand, cutting off the protest I could feel coming. "I'll talk while you shop."

"Sounds like a plan to me."

* * *

"..._let me paint a picture for you, then I'll have to teach you to see it. Illustrate the remnants of the life I used to live here in Eden. Rolled a lucky pair of dice, ended up in paradise, landed on a snake's eyes, took a bite and ended up bleedin'..."_

I heard the music as I rounded the corner to the parking lot, Tink's voice clearly audible through the open windows. Apparently it wasn't cold enough to prevent her from rolling them all down so she could jack up the volume. It's still a wonder to me that she's not deaf yet.

"..._walking in the garden was a serpent-shaped heart and he told me, 'what is broken cannot show and less than beautiful is worse than unholy.' Idolized my innocence, stole it from me in the end. Now I'm wide awake and still paying for the poison they sold me…"_

Slouched down in the passenger seat with her eyes closed and her knees jammed against the dash, she didn't hear me until I got in the car, only prying her eyes open after I'd shut the door and turned the radio down. "Hey, I was listenin' to that. _Rude._"

"Yeah, well, start listening to real music and we'll talk." She likely would have responded a little quicker to that, but that was right about when she got a denim jacket to the face. Couldn't have her freezing to death in the frozen food section. (_See? Rude. -Tink) _

"What, like Led Zeppelin? Expand your horizons, Winchester." Glancing over at me, she sat up enough to pull her jacket on before leaning back against the seat, her smile turning into a bratty smirk that was more than enough to let me know she was about to say something bitchy as she nodded to the cardboard box sitting in the floorboard next to her boots. (_Men who live in glass houses shouldn't criticize other people's musical choices. -Tink) "_Is there a single tape in there that isn't John's?"

"...no."

"I didn't-" I'm not sure if she's just always been good at reading a room in general or just me specifically, but it only took about half a second for her to figure out she'd hit a nerve. Considering she'd been intentionally calling me out about my 'daddy issues' for the last week and a half, it was hilarious how quick she backtracked when she implied it on accident. (_In quotes? Really? Did you 'backtrack' into denial? Is this a thing we're doing now? Also, I want to go on record and state that dude really isn't hard to read. I told you, dude __**growls**__. -Tink) _"I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like-"

"I know you didn't." She has this habit of getting flustered when she thinks she's hurt someone's feelings and it's just the cutest fucking thing. Also impossible to stay mad at. It's a real pain in the ass, but I think I've mentioned that. "You don't have to apologize."

She chewed on the inside of her cheek while she decided whether or not to take me at my word or apologize again anyway, just to be on the safe side, then decided to go off in a whole different direction. Or so I thought. "Can I tell you a secret?"

"I don't see why not." She'd spent the entire evening telling me gruesome details about her life and had to ask if she could tell me a secret? Okay. Sure. "Who am I gonna tell?"

"I like classic rock." She relaxed back into her seat and smiled brightly as she revealed her 'secret' before leaning over to grab her boots. "And just rock in general. And alternative." She started pulling them on, a reminder that we were supposed to be heading to Walmart or wherever and not sitting in the parking lot. "I mean, nothing wrong with Britney Spears or Katy Perry, they're fun to dance to, but I'd rather listen to Kansas or Lynyrd Skynyrd."

Starting the car, I moved to throw it in gear to reverse out and promptly threw it back into park as that last part made its way into my brain. I couldn't glare good enough while driving and that definitely deserved a good glare. "...then why the _hell_ are you always changin' the station and givin' me shit about-" Okay. Stupid question. I knew it as soon as I said it. She'd done it specifically to annoy the shit out of me. And it worked. "Alright, that's fair. ...can I tell you a secret?"

She finished pulling on her boots and leaned back, arching a brow at me as she threw my words back at me. Again. Though to be fair, I do that to her a lot, too. Unfortunately, she's better at getting the tone right, I just come off as a dick. (_Only sometimes. -Tink) _"I don't see why not. Who am I gonna tell?"

"I can sing."

"Bullshit." I think the word was out of her mouth before she even realized, but no way was she taking that one back. Turning in her seat so she could see me better, she eyed me skeptically before a smile I didn't particularly like crept across her lips. Crossing her arms, she leaned back against the door and smirked when her gaze met mine. "You realize that now you're gonna have to prove it, right?"

Was I lying? No. Was I a performing monkey? …I choose not to answer that. "Not gonna happen."

"Aww, you're _shy._" No, I'm not. (_Yes he is. -Tink)_ "That's so _cute_." I also totally wasn't turning bright red right about then, because that's not a thing that I do. (_...ahaha. -Tink)_ "Suck it up, Winchester, you totally owe me for hours of aural torture." Leaning over to flip the radio back on, she must have caught my expression at that one because she just shook her head and rolled her eyes as she sat back. "...I said _aural_, you perv." Crossing her legs, she sat with her elbows on her knees, leaning forward and gazing at me with exaggerated adoration. The girl could win an Oscar, I shit you not. "Now come on, serenade me, Romeo."

How was I supposed to say no to that? I had the feeling that if I'd tried, I probably would never have heard the end of it, so better to just give in and get it over with. At least that's the excuse I'm going to use and it's not at all that I wanted to impress her or anything. "...fine."

Reaching for the radio, I flipped through the stations and tried to find a decent song and tried to ignore the mouthy little girl in the passenger seat. It is absolutely amazing how much attitude she can put in a look without ever needing to open her mouth, a talent she uses to annoy me daily.

I settled on something familiar and sat back, clearing my throat and just hoping I wasn't about to make a giant ass of myself.

* * *

I admit, I was a little skeptical when Dean suddenly claimed he could sing. After all, I'd been listening to that off-key, tone-deaf screeching of his for going on a week and a half and it hadn't occurred to me that he was being obnoxious. Surely no one could be that bad on _purpose_, right? Yeah, turns out they can and if they're a total asshole, they _will_.

"..._when I'm down, give me somethin' stronger. Turn it all around, keep me goin' longer. When I'm feelin' low, and livin' far away, all I need is to be with the one I believe that'll save me…"_

And there went my skepticism. He wasn't lying, he can sing. And for the curious, he's _good._ Like, _really_ good. Better than me, that's for damn sure. The man has the kind of voice that gives you goosebumps and sends a shiver up your spine, full and deep, like if whiskey were a song. And by that I mean the boy's got _bass_. Total panty-dropper.

"..._when I'm down, so broken down, won't you carry me away. Carry me away, where I belong. All I need is to call you home, won't you carry me away-" _And that's about as far as he got before I regained the power of speech. (_Yeah, she never loses that for long. -Dean)_

"You are such a _dick_. Oh my fucking _God, _Winchester." Exasperated, I probably would have strangled him if I thought I could get away with it, or if I thought I actually had a chance of winning a fight without getting squashed like a bug. The fact that he was laughing didn't help any. "It's not funny! You've been screeching at me like a barn owl when you can-" Cutting myself off, I huffed at him as I sat back and crossed my arms, trying hard to keep a smile off my face as I turned to look out my open window. "I'm not talkin' to you _ever_ again."

Did he just _snort_? Yes. Yes, he did. "If only."


	16. All About Dean

The rumble of the V8 faded as Dean killed the engine and pocketed the keys before leaning over me to pop open the glovebox. Without so much as an 'excuse me' as he invaded my personal bubble, he rifled around before coming up with a little bronze amulet I'd never seen before and considering how often I'd rifled through Dean's car, that was saying something. I didn't get a great look at it at the time, but I can certainly describe it now. Hell, it's even in the fanfiction about us. I do believe they call it 'The Samulet'. It's a small, heavy bronze thing with a little face and horns. Honestly, it's kind of creepy, but who am I to judge.

—And yes, there's fanfiction about us. It's a long story and we'll get to that eventually. For now it's enough to know that it exists and it's awesome. (_I am not a fan. I mean come on. Wincest? __**Really?**_ _-Dean)—_

"What was that?"

"Nothin'." Tucking the amulet in the inner-pocket of his leather jacket, Dean reached for the door handle before apparently realizing that I wasn't accepting 'nothin', and considering he already had a pretty good idea of how stubborn I was, it didn't take him long to realize I wasn't moving until I got a better answer.

"It's uh-" Running a hand through his dark hair, he looked embarrassed, which honestly is a good look for him. But then again, most looks are. "It's a necklace. Sam gave it to me for Christmas when we were kids. I don't normally take it off but the leather strap broke a couple weeks back and I haven't had a chance to get a new one."

"That's _adorable."_ And there he went, turning all kinds of red again. I can understand, it's got to be a little mortifying to basically admit that you're a giant marshmallow and not the big, scary bruiser you pretend to be. (_Don't listen to her. I'm terrifying. -Dean) "_Seriously, the whole 'big brother' vibe is just too cute."

"Shut up." Hand on the door, Dean just sighed and shook his head, ignoring my smirk and moving right past the fact that I'd basically just called him cute. (_I was trying to blame the alcohol. For her sake. -Dean)_ "Are you coming?"

"Not while you're watching." I couldn't let that bit of double entendre slip by without a little innuendo of my own. After all, we're blaming the alcohol, right? I can't be held responsible for my actions. (_Words. Actions didn't come till much later. -Dean) _"So when you gonna start talkin', Winchester?"

"Can we get out of the car first?"

* * *

The automatic doors beneath the glowing blue-and-white sign opened, letting out a blast of air that was even colder than the night outside. (_No, it wasn't. -Dean)_

—Okay, maybe not, but it sure as hell felt like it. What even is the point of having the air conditioner blasting when it's sixty degrees out? Someone tell me, I need to know the rationalization on this one. (_You know, I came out to have a good time and I'm just feeling so attacked right now. -Dean)—_

I grabbed a cart from just inside the doors, squinting against the bright fluorescent lights overhead as I took a second to remember if I'd thanked Dean for grabbing my jacket. No. No, I had not. Then again, he _had _thrown it at my head, so that was fair.

Arms crossed over the cart handle, I smiled up at the behemoth next to me, in no particular hurry to speed through this shopping trip. Generally I'm not a fan of your local Big Box Retailer and spend as little time there as possible, but there are some exceptions and this was definitely one of them. "Alright, we're here. Start talkin', Winchester."

"You always this impatient?" Hands tucked firmly into his pockets, Dean slowed his stride to keep in step with mine as I steered us toward the men's clothing, looking down at me with an expression caught somewhere between exasperation and amusement. Also a good look for him. "I'm tryin' to think."

"I thought I smelled something burning."

"How do you fit that much obnoxious in such a small package?"

"Years of practice." Stopping before we stepped into the forest of clothing racks, I leaned an elbow on the cart and looked up at Dean with a saccharine smile as I waved a hand toward the abundance of cotton and flannel stretched out before us. "You know what size Sam wears or am I gonna have to guess?"

—I think it took Dean a second to realize where we were and why we were there. I mean, I'm sure it would have occurred to him eventually that Sam had no clothes (or anything else), and I guess I couldn't really blame him for forgetting. After all, he wasn't the one that had spent the better part of an hour cleaning vomit out of t-shirt, carpet, and inebriated human.—

"Yeah, I do." Blinking down at me, he smiled, one of those slow, charming smiles that builds into a full-on grin. Can you say butterflies? "We wear the same size jeans, he's just one up in shirts."

"Good to know." Also not the easiest to shop for. Just saying. Then again, neither am I. (_She usually has to shop in the kids section and it's hilarious. -Dean) _"Think we can find somethin' for him while you talk?"

"Probably." True to his word, Dean led the way in, searching for enough denim and flannel to get Sam through for a few days until he was up to picking up a few things on his own. I followed with the cart, trying to stay close enough to hear him without running him over in the narrow spaces that wound through the racks. "Guess I should start at the beginning, though maybe not as far back as you tried to. I'm not as familiar with Genesis-"

That's fair. Didn't stop me from flipping him off, though. (_The least rude hand gesture she knew at the time. Now she can tell you to fuck off in sign language. That's fun. Thanks, Eileen. -Dean)_

"-I was born on January 24th, 1979, in Lawrence, Kansas to a happily married John and Mary Winchester." Grabbing a couple of plain t-shirts off a shelf, Dean checked the size before tossing one in the basket and the other back onto the shelf. "I had a pretty normal childhood for the first few years. Swingset, sandbox, bedtimes stories. Hell, Mom even cut the crusts off my peanut butter sandwiches."

"How very Norman Rockwell." Abandoning the cart where it wasn't likely to get in anyone else's way, I gave Dean a dirty look before I skirted around him to pick up the shirt he'd just tossed back onto the shelf. "Seriously Dean, it takes two seconds." I ignored the eye-roll I got in return as I folded the shirt the way it was and put it back where it belonged. "Or do you need me to teach you how to fold clothes?"

"Little hostile there, Tinkerbell." Dean retrieved the basket from where I'd left it as I straightened his mess and grabbed a couple more of the same shirt in a couple different neutral colors. It's always nice to have variety. (_Says the girl that usually dresses in black everything but socks. -Dean) _"Something you need to get off your chest?" Crossing his arms, he watched me, an insufferable smirk hovering on his lips. "Or are we going back to hating each other already?"

"Sorry, didn't mean to get snappy." Okay, yes I did, but to be fair, I wasn't totally used to being so friendly yet and I can be a little defensive. Or is that offensive? (_Both. -Dean) "_It's just-Do you know how much the average retail worker makes?" I may or may not have been straightening clothing that Dean hadn't come anywhere near at this point. "Trust me, it's not nearly enough to have to put up with asshole customers that don't have the manners of a toddler and can't be bothered to clean up after themselves."

"Can't say I ever gave it much thought."

"I don't think most people do, but they should." Turning to survey the shelves of jeans stacked a few yards away, I gestured for Dean to precede me and we made our way over, ignoring the other patrons that were there at such a late hour. "You were saying?"

"Um-Shit." Dean took a second to remember where he'd left off before I'd so rudely interrupted him while browsing the varied selection of denim to choose from, occasionally glancing over at me to see if I was still listening. Yeah. Right. Like I was going to miss this. "Sam was born when I was four and everything was great for awhile." Finding a couple pairs of jeans he seemed to think were good enough, Dean tossed them into the basket and straightened up, running a hand through his hair and clearing his throat before continuing, "Then when he was a few months old, everything kinda went sideways."

"That's when your mom died?" All these years later, and he still has trouble talking about it. There are some things you just never get over and it showed. (Still does.) Up to that point, I don't think I'd ever wanted to hug a grown man quite as much as I did right then. Too bad the thought also made my heart skip and my skin crawl, for multiple reasons. (_Because that's flattering. -Dean) _"Sam told me what happened."

"You two are gettin' to be fast friends, huh."

"I'm good with kids and Sam just happens to be a particularly large one." At least, he was at the time. Grief will do that to you. And was that jealousy I heard in Dean's voice? Because I'd _ever _shown the _slightest_ interest in Sam at that point. (_I was __**not **__jealous. ...shut up. -Dean) _"So you guys just had a nice, normal life until something or other came along and blew it to pieces."

"Pretty much, yeah." Dean took the cart back, steering it out of the section we were in and into socks and underwear. It didn't take him long at all to grab the essentials and toss them into the cart with everything else. Shaking his head, he flashed me a half-smile that seemed almost apologetic. "Your life story is just a little more dramatic than mine."

"Dude, you hunt _monsters _and have a close, fuzzy relationship with Casper the Not-So-Friendly Ghost. I'd say that's pretty dramatic." Who in their right mind would think that wasn't dramatic? Oh. Right. He's never been in his right mind. Moving on. "So what happened after your mom died?"

"We had a funeral." The reply might have been on the smartass side of things but it wasn't hard to see how difficult it was for him to talk about. His hands tightening around the cart handle hard enough to make the plastic squeak and avoiding eye-contact are kind of huge clues there. "I don't really remember all that too well. It kind of blurs together, you know?" Yes. Yes, I do. Caught up in his own memory, Dean paused in the middle of the aisle, ignoring the dirty looks that earned him from a middle-aged woman with classic resting bitch face. "I do remember sittin' in a church pew next to a dark-haired woman. I think she was a friend of Mom's, but don't quote me on that."

"Wasn't plannin' on it." Snagging the end of the cart with a finger, I gave it a pull, reminding Dean that we were in fact in the middle of something and he should probably get out of the way of other people unless he wanted to get run over by some woman named Karen with a too-expensive haircut and six-inch fingernails. Not to mention we actually had things we needed to buy. "What else do you remember?"

"Not much." Taking the hint, Dean let me take over the cart as we ambled over toward the grocery section. Tucking his hands into his jacket pockets, he shrugged and fell into step next to me. "Mostly just her holdin' Sammy in her lap and a guy I didn't know standing in front of a podium talking about shit I didn't understand." Blinking the memory away, he smiled down at me as he skirted around a soda display that I don't think he actually saw. "What are you makin' for breakfast?"

"I was thinkin' somethin' breakfast-y, like eggs or pancakes or cold pizza." Because who doesn't like cold pizza for breakfast? (_Woman after my own heart. -Dean) _"So your Mom's friend took you to her funeral? Where was your Dad?"

"I don't know. I never asked." If anyone would like to pinpoint the exact moment I started to develop an intense dislike of John Winchester, this would be it. (_Intense dislike? You mean rabid hatred. So glad you're over that. -Dean) _ "I actually quit talking for awhile after that, or so I'm told, so I don't think I was asking anyone much of anything."

"You wanna hear somethin' you're just gonna love?" Stopping the cart in front of the dairy case, I opened the fridge to grab a half-gallon of milk and a couple cartons of eggs. I set them in the cart next to an already wrinkled t-shirt and glanced over at Dean with a sympathetic smile. "When I was little, my nickname was Minnie Mouse because I was so little and quiet people tended to forget I was there. I didn't speak in full sentences until I was five."

Eyes narrowed, Dean arched a brow, looking skeptical enough to border on insulting. Good thing he's cute, makes it a little harder to get annoyed at him. (_No it doesn't. -Dean) _ "I find that hard to believe, Chatty Kathy."

"Hey, six months of intensive unwanted therapy and two years later, I can almost hold a normal conversation."

"Is that what this is?"

"Well, normal is relative." Also a setting on the dryer. I mean seriously, have you ever met anyone you'd really consider 'normal'? Because I haven't and I'm not sure there is such a thing. "Not that I'd know, the only relative I've got is rapidly losing her mind and usually thinks I'm my mother." It didn't take long to grab a pack of bacon to go with the eggs, as well as some sausage and a few other things. Like salt. Pepper is also good. "Besides, you should be flattered. I'm not this chatty with everyone."

"I guess I'm just special, then. Yay me." He almost sounded like he meant that. I mean sure, there was a trace of sarcasm, but that's there with like ninety-nine percent of everything that comes out of his mouth. "...I'm sorry Beatrice thinks you're your mother. That's gotta sting."

"Yeah, it does. Thanks." 'Sting' was a bit of an understatement, but I appreciated the thought. Taking a step back, I took a look around until I spotted the sign over the aisle I was looking for. Couldn't cook without a skillet. And maybe a cake pan because cake. "So what happens next in the Winchester Saga?"

"Not a whole lot." Considering everything I know now that I didn't know then, I can confidently say that 'not a whole lot' is _massively_ downplaying it. "Dad was gone a lot. When we were real little, he'd leave us with friends like Bobby or Jim for days or weeks at a time while he was off doin' whatever." Dean paused long enough to grab a bag of peanut M&Ms off the shelf as we passed before catching back up to me. "When we got a little older, he started bringing us along and we'd stay in a motel room while he was gone."

"I'd apologize for interrupting but I'm not actually sorry-" Hey, at least I'm honest, right? (_Is that what we're calling that? -Dean) _ "How old were you when he started draggin' you and Sam with him?"

"I don't know, seven or eight?" It took Dean a second to realize I'd come to a dead-stop in the middle of anything and I don't imagine the look on my face was a good one. Turning slowly back toward me, he just looked confused as to why anyone would possibly find that bit of information disturbing. "...what?"

"I just-So Sam would have been what? Three or four?" Stepping aside for a couple of teenagers to pass, I ignore the curious looks we were getting. I mean, we weren't exactly being quiet and the conversation wasn't really typical for your average shopping trip so I can't actually blame people for eavesdropping. "And he just left you guys alone for days at a time?"

"Yeah. So?"

"Nothin', I had just thought for some reason that my childhood was _more_ fucked up than yours, but it's really not." I don't think Dean appreciated the comparison. (_I still don't, but she's not wrong. I hate that. -Dean) _"That is every bit as fucked up as gettin' smacked around, maybe more so." For the record, my opinion on that one really hasn't changed much. Or at all. "At least I only had myself to worry about. You had to play dad when you were fuckin' _seven _and that is beyond messed up."

"That's not-" Ever seen a Winchester so offended he starts to stutter? I have, and yes, it's just as funny as you think it is. "It's not even-" Nostrils flaring, Dean pressed his lips tightly together as he tried to string together a full sentence and mostly failed. "Just no."

"So anger and denial are just your go-to coping mechanisms, huh. Maybe throw in a little humor for funsies?" I cocked my head to the side and gave Dean a long look, taking in everything from tip to tail and back again without even trying to hide my smirk. "You know, you're kinda cute when you're annoyed. Like a big, cranky Bullmastiff that is all bark and no bite."

"Oh, I bite-"

"-but only if asked nicely and I don't remember asking yet." I might not have totally intended to say that, but it slipped out before I could stop it. Clearing my throat, I ignored the warmth creeping up my neck and pretended I wasn't turning fifty shades of pink. "Shut up, I'm drunk. I did you the courtesy of pretending you weren't comin' onto me last night, now it's your turn."

Judging by Dean's expression, I think he'd actually forgotten that I was just a tad inebriated. (_No, I was hoping she'd forgotten what I'd said the night before but no such luck. -Dean) _"So as soon as you're sober…?"

"It's probably right back to denial and bitch-flirting."

"Good to know."


	17. Quarter Machine Herpes

Author's Note: In 'Woman in White', I had Dean dating Cassie when he was 18 "right after he dropped out of high school". I had him younger than canon timeline for a reason, but have since decided that the actual canon timeline fits my plans better and decided to change it back. So for anyone reading this chapter and going 'wait a minute', it's not a continuity error, I'm just fixing a mistake. (And have corrected it in Woman in White as well.)

* * *

X*X*X*X*X

* * *

"You know, if you're quiet for more than five minutes, I'm gonna assume you're defaulting on the deal-" I paused long enough to grab a couple packages of mushrooms, tossing them into the basket beside the steadily growing pile before tucking my hands into my pockets. Doing my best to pretend I wasn't slowly freezing to death, I flashed Dean a saccharine smile, "-and that would mean you have to cook your own damn breakfast."

Eyeing the basket with disdain as I added a few more vegetables and a small selection of fruit, Dean lifted his gaze to meet mine with a too-sweet smile of his own. "You're assuming I can't cook."

"No, I'm assuming you don't want to." Which was a pretty safe assumption, though I might have _also_ assumed he can't cook. Not about to say that, though, because then I'd have been admitting he was right and I hated that. (_You still do. -Dean) _"Can you?"

"What, cook?" One hand in his pocket and the other hovering over the side of the cart, Dean shrugged a shoulder before confessing that I wouldn't have been wrong to assume he couldn't cook. I just wouldn't have been totally right, either. It happens. It's rare, but it happens. (_Rare, my ass. -Dean) _"Some. Mostly just cereal and about a thousand different ways to make ramen noodles, but I can do a burger that'll knock your socks off."

"I'd rather not, I like my socks." Seriously. I have a pair of socks with narwhals vomiting rainbows and another pair that look like slices of watermelon. I love my socks. "Come on, start talkin' or I might change my mind about makin' meatloaf and go for a nice vegan option instead." Relinquishing the cart, I tucked my hands in my jacket pockets as I turned to lead the way toward the pharmacy section all the way on the other side of the store. ...that I probably should have gone to before getting anything out of the cold food aisles but whatever. "I'm thinkin' maybe a nice quinoa bowl with avocado. Maybe some brussel sprouts."

"You wouldn't." I didn't even have to say anything, just smiled at the look of absolute horror that crept over his face as he realized I so would. You'd think I just killed a puppy right in front of him. (_Eh, not a dog person. -Dean)_ "That's cold, Tink."

"I guess-I guess the first memory that comes to mind after Mom's-after Mom was when Dad took me shootin' for the first time. I was maybe six or seven, just takin' pot shots at beer bottles with a .22.." Stopping at a handful of shopping carts full of half-price Halloween candy, Dean just shook his head and silently countered my veggie threats by picking out a few bags of peanut M&Ms and when the hell did they start making Halloween themed Cadbury Creme eggs? He looked up at me as he tossed his selections in the basket next to the mushrooms and smiled, that kind of shit-eating-grin way that let me know I was supposed to be impressed by whatever was about to come out of his mouth, "Bullseyed every one of 'em."

"Bullshit." The word was out of my mouth before I realized I was going to say it, but I wasn't about to take it back. I mean, come on, he really expected me to believe that? By the adorably crestfallen expression aorning his features, yes. Yes he did. Aww, the poor baby. (_Shut up. -Dean) _"There's no way."

"You ever shot a gun?"

It wasn't hard to tell that he was hoping the answer was no, probably because then he could continue to try to bullshit me. Sadly for him, I wasn't a total dumbass. "Yup, I have, and there's no way you're gonna convince me you've been some kind of firearm savant since you were six-" (And because I'm not in any way, shape, or form immune to the disappointed puppy look Winchester men seem to practice in the mirror, of course I couldn't just leave it as 'you're so full of shit'.) "-and why would you want to? I've seen you handle a gun, Dean, and that kind of expertise is hard earned. That's way more impressive than some magical God-given skill."

"Are you bein' a pain in my ass for fun or is there some kinda profit?" Giving way to a small herd of teenagers dressed like they'd just had a fun night out at a Daft Punk concert, Dean waited for them to meander down the way a bit before we resumed the arduous trek to pick up toothpaste and tampons, a half-smile hovering on his lips. "You want honesty? Fine." That half-smile bloomed into a brilliant grin that crept up until it filled those gorgeous green eyes of his, "I missed every shot my first time out. Happy?"

"Ecstatic, thanks." And I was, too, which was probably evident from the laughter I had to choke back. After all, every good relationship should be based in honesty, even ones where you occasionally want to strangle the other person until they lose consciousness. (_Accurate. -Dean) _"If it makes you feel any better, I've only been a couple times and I suck."

"Oddly enough, that does not make me feel better." Following after me as I turned into the dental hygiene aisle, Dean stopped when I did and watched as I looked over the various different toothpaste options. I prefer wintergreen-flavored whatever but that's not always the easiest to find. For the curious, Dean prefers cinnamon, which is also not the most common. (_Why is it all fucking peppermint? If I want a candy cane, I'll eat one. -Dean_) "Who took you shooting?"

"Anthony." Silly question, really. Who else would it have been? "He keeps a shotgun under the bar and a .45 in the office. He insisted I learn the basics before he'd let me work a shift alone."

Dean leaned against the cart, his arms crossed over the handle as he nodded absently. "Smart man, I approve."

"Of course you do." Because the guy with a mobile armory would think learning to handle a gun was a bad idea? I don't think so, Tim. "So, what's next on the Dean Winchester greatest hits list?"

"Not a lot, really-" Lies! _There is a metric shit-ton_. "-I guess the next big thing was when Sammy graduated high school and decided he wanted to go to Stanford." Do you see how much he's leaving out? Jumping from six to twenty-two? Did he expect me to not notice or something? "Dad didn't take it well."

"And I'm sure you were super thrilled." Tossing a tube of wintergreen Crest into the basket next to the family-size bag of M&Ms, I didn't give him any time for a rebuttal. "And what about you? Did you graduate or get your GED or what?"

"I dropped out about halfway through senior year, didn't really bother doing anything about it after that. Didn't see much point." With a shrug, Dean brushed it off, deeming it less than important. I tend to disagree, but then again I think learning is fun and have been known to assign myself homework for shits and giggles. (_She really does and it's creepy and wrong. -Dean) "_You know, Dad was actually happier about that than Sam getting into Stanford?"

"Of course he was." Just from the few stories I'd heard up to that point, John didn't really seem a 'higher education' kind of guy, so that wasn't really a shocker. (I have since met the man and can confirm that basically anything that takes attention away from the job at hand isn't his favorite thing ever. Me included.) "I gotta say, the more I hear about your dad, the more I think he's an asshole and I am currently not fond."

Dean's smile faded and he pressed his lips firmly together for a second, likely taking the time to remind himself that I wasn't trying to start a fight, I was just drunk. "Could you not?"

"Fair enough." Stubborn and mouthy I might be, but I also know when to back off. Well, sometimes anyway. Besides, it's not like I was raised by Mary Poppins. Definitely time to shift to a safer subject. Comparatively speaking. "What about Cassie?"

"What about her?" He might be good at playing dumb, but even he's not that good. With a reluctant sigh that was so deep I was a little surprised he didn't pass out from lack of oxygen, Dean rolled his eyes, looking physically pained. (_Because talking about exes always ends so well. -Dean) "_I was twenty-two. Met her not long after Sam took off." With another sigh, Dean ran a hand through his hair, his fingers lingering to scratch at the back of his neck. "Dad and I were workin' a job on a college campus. She was in her first year, goin' for a journalism degree. Wanted to be a reporter."

"...and?"

"And we were together for about a year." Dean reluctantly answered, looking about as serious as anyone can while standing next to a shelf of dandruff shampoo. "It didn't end well."

"You really think I'm just gonna let that go?"

"I'm not that lucky." That's true, he's not. None of us are. I blame the fact that we broke a whole shit ton of mirrors on a job early on and that's just been haunting us ever since. Also there was a whole thing with a cursed rabbit's foot, but let's not even get into that right now. "We were starting to get serious, talking about moving in together and-"

Dumping a bottle of shampoo and conditioner into the cart next to the pile of diabetes Dean had picked out, I waited for him to finish. Except he didn't, instead deciding to just stop in the middle of a sentence like a jerk. "_And_?"

"-and I told her the truth about who I am and what I do." Dean's green eyes darkened (figuratively speaking) and that muscle in his jaw started to twitch like it does when he's clenching his teeth hard enough to crack enamel. "Like I said, it didn't end well."

Dean wasn't exactly the kind of guy to open up easy and if he'd gotten close enough to someone to tell them the truth and she'd totally rejected him… Ouch, that had to hurt. Like dude didn't have enough issues. Of course, maybe if he hadn't lied and hid it from her _for nearly a year_, she'd have reacted better, but I wasn't about to say as much. I can't kick a man while he's down. (_Yes, she can. Literally. The girl fights dirty. -Dean) _

"What was she like?"

"Cute. Smart. A real pain in my-" Blinking down at me, that boyish grin started to creep back over his lips again as I watched the proverbial lightbulb click on over his head. "Huh."

"Huh? What 'huh'?"

"Maybe I do have a type."

* * *

"Miss me?"

I jumped about a foot in the air and spun around as Dean's voice issued suddenly from like six inches behind me, forcing me to take a step back to look up at him properly. I'm not usually the easiest person to sneak up on but he kind of has a knack for it. The ass.

The edges of his lips twitched and he managed to turn a chuckle into an unconvincing cough as I took a step back and glared up at him. "...sorry."

"You know, I don't think you are, but I'll forgive you just this once because I'm just such a magnanimous person." Shoving the shopping cart over to the side of the aisle, I crossed my arms and looked up at Dean, eyeing him for no real reason other than he's a nice guy to eye. "What even took you so long? I thought you just needed to go grab the whatever to fix your necklace. I was startin' to think you'd decided to just leave my ass here and take off without me."

"Like I'd get far." Oh. Yeah. Curse. Right. That was still a thing. A thing that seemed less pressing by the day, but still a thing. Digging into his jacket pocket, he gave me basically no warning before tossing whatever it was at me, just assuming I'd catch it. I mean, I _did_ catch it, but still. So rude. "Here."

I somehow managed not to fumble the retina-searing hot-pink Motorola flip-phone with a nice little display on the front and on the back… "Where the fuck did you a Tinkerbell sticker?"'

"Quarter machine." His hands stuffed in his pockets, he looked inordinately pleased that he'd managed to both get me a gift and make fun of me all at the same time. (I mean, come on, the sticker had _glitter_, the herpes of craft supplies. Ugh! ...okay, it was kind of cute, but my point still stands.) "Your service is up and it's got me and Sam's numbers in your speed-dial."

'...thank you."

"You're welcome." Dean took control of the cart so I could fiddle with my new toy a bit as we made our slow way toward the front of the store. "So, have I officially fulfilled my end of the bargain."

"Not even close, but it looks like we're gonna be spending a fair amount of time together so I'm willin' to let you off the hook for now."

'Why don't you take your fancy-ass new phone and go call Anthony." Producing his car keys from the front pocket of his jeans, he held them out for me, shaking them until they jingled like crappy little bells. "I'll check out."

"You sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure." Dropping the keys into my outstretched hand, I pretended not to notice when his fingertips brushed mine, lingering there for just a little longer than strictly necessary. "He's probably startin' to worry. I know I would be. Besides, you look like you're about half asleep."

"I do not." (_Yes she did. -Dean) _ "...but thanks."

"You don't quit thankin' me for every little thing and I'm gonna start to think you don't hate me."

"Can't have that, now can we." Ignoring the butterflies that were trying to somersault out of my stomach, I cleared my throat and flashed Dean a smile as I flipped open the hot pink monstrosity, turning away as I dialed the number from memory. "Hey, Anthony. It's me…"


	18. Epilogue

_There you have it, folks, how it all began. Well, at least the me and Dean part. I know it's not the most dramatic or interesting thing ever, but it was the start of the best time of my life. His too, if you believe what he has to say about it. Sure things got bad later, but for awhile, we got to be almost normal. _

_Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got a pie that's about ready to come out of the oven. All my love. _

_~Tink_

* * *

You're still here? It's over. Go home.

I have a pie to go eat.

-Dean


	19. Episode Playlist

1\. Something Wild - Lindsey Stirling ft.

2\. Eden - Sara Bareilles

3\. When I'm Down - Radio Company (Jensen Ackles)

Bonus tracks: 

I Don't Wanna Fall in Love - She Wants Revenge

To the Moon and Back - Savage Garden


End file.
